grumpy but gorgeous

Havana City, Havana crazy

2012-01-29T16:31:00.000+01:00

It had to finally happen. Two months after our return from Cuba, I started missing it so much I find it almost unreal. I still remember all the things I didn't like about it, the things that made me feel uncomfortable, insecure, unhappy, emotionally drained. And yet all these seem to fade away, or at least partly, luckily they are still in my diary and I don't fully rely on my memory to recreate the image of Cuba and of our first trip there. But leaving my diary aside for now, here's what kept coming back to me these days (and yes, Los Van Van did play an important part in idealizing my recent past):

Los Van Van - Havana City

Powered by mp3skull.com

Nights out with El Pollo Loco and Los Ninos. We all know it was not always fun and perfect and I'd raise an eyebrow a lot more often than any sane woman approaching 30 would allow herself to, but I'd trade a few Sundays in Warsaw for just one Sunday night at 1830 or a sunset on the roof of our casa.

We had a thing for mirrors, shop windows, sunglasses, TV screens, lakes and rivers

Meeting Amado and talking about the rumba, my academic dilemmas, concerts, politics, traditions and music

66 years of Clave y Guaguanco summed up in one afternoon

Cooking with Ana and talking about innovation and creativity in the kitchen and in art, dancing with Ana and learning about trust, partnerships, femininity and conquests. I am very grateful to Ana for washing away some of my cynicism and making a few very good points about belief and expectations.

Stories about the rumba down by the river in Matanzas

Rumba class with Ana

My first rumbera outfit

Ana's grandchildren and especially my best friend in Cuba, Malik, who one morning explained all I ever needed to know about Orisha traditions and then taught me how to dance. He is also the author of a very spectacular and experimental photo session that will be published here shortly.

One of the rare moments when Malik took a break from dancing

Malik and his partner dancing guaguanco

Rumba. I still feel awkward dancing it and I'm not exactly brilliant, maybe because I had already sold my soul to ballroom dancing before going to Cuba, but I do miss a good show. And my favorite rumberos, obviously. I couldn't stay 100% objective no matter how hard I tried.

Yoruba Andabo at Cabaret Las Vegas

Clave y Guaguanco at Palacio de la Rumba

Los Munequitos de Matanzas at Palacio de la Rumba

Cake!!!

Insanely sweet. Loved it.

The sounds of the street since early morning. No other city will ever match the fabulous soundtrack of Havana. And I can't wait for a replay.

Juan Formell y Los Van Van - 10 - Agua

Powered by mp3skull.com

How Google killed the buzz

2012-01-11T16:45:00.000+01:00

The other night over cocktails a friend of mine told me about this guy she had seen at a party just a few days ago. She spoke with that very specific mix of enthusiasm and uneasiness that most of us have when talking about someone we think we might like, yet know absolutely nothing about. That is, until we start looking for information. In less than ten minutes she sent over all the links I needed in order to have a clear image about the guy's career, experience, projects and agenda. And his girlfriend. My friend's enthusiasm was suddenly silenced.

Then I remembered a few months ago I had gone through a similar episode on a rather dull Monday evening. I was on my way to the grocery store when I spotted the new dance and ballet school just a few hundred meters from my apartment and decided to take a detour and see what it was all about. Had this been a movie, I would have probably gotten the idea post-shopping and would have taken a short and intense trip in the world of ballet carrying a watermelon (if this doesn't ring a bell, it's probably been quite a while since you watched this). But I gave in to my curiosity. In less than five minutes, I had managed to spark with a person who was pretty close to what I had been looking for but hadn't realised it: ballet dancer, world traveler, probably at least bilingual and, as it turned out later, lead dancer for the Polish National Opera and most likely married, but I only found that out after calling Ana and blabbering about men in tights. It didn't take Google too long to kill the butterflies in my stomach and my enthusiasm over the new dance teacher in the neighbourhood - because this time it was not just about dancing, it was also about liking someone I would have probably discovered at a later point was out of reach, but that later point would have happened a lot later if not for my conditional reflex and for the easiness to find out absolutely everything there is to be found out.

Back in highschool I could spend weeks without even knowing the name of my newest crush and then get all girly and blushy and quakey when we finally spoke, there were countless questions filling my head and I'd get an adrenaline rush every time I found out something so unimportant as where he usually goes for beer, how he likes his coffee, the name of his dog, the bus he takes every morning or the books he borrowed from the library the week before.

Back then it was a lot easier to daydream about men because fiction was the only filler for the gaps that appeared in our brains every time we had a new guy in sight, until we actually got the data that gave us a complete picture. Now it's pretty sure we're able to find out more than we actually need about most guys we meet, be it the bartender from the pub around the corner, the Starbucks guy who makes the best vanilla latte in Warsaw, a new dance partner or just someone randomly met on a Saturday night. Some might say this spares us a lot of trouble, but I'm really not sure I want to be spared the trouble of daydreaming and putting a bit more effort into finding out things that I'm practically offered prepacked with just a few clicks. And trying to control the impulse of searching all this information is more difficult than it appears, cutting Google out of my life is much riskier than letting him cut out some potential new prospects.

Monday morning

2012-01-09T15:46:00.001+01:00

May all my mornings at the office be as lovely and surprising as this one.

My one and only resolution

2012-01-01T21:51:00.001+01:00

Happy New Year!

I spent most of my day reading some wonderful posts, skimming through the books I carried with me after a short and lovely trip back home, drinking coffee and thinking about my resolutions for 2012.

I'm a natural born planner and a bit of a control freak, with just a hint of neurosis - I like lists, excel tables, deadlines (I take comfort in knowing they're there, even though I hardly ever meet them), agendas, getting things done and planning ahead. I have a rather clear picture of what my priorities are this year, of my main goals and objectives and the steps I need to take in order to achieve them and I'm quite satisfied knowing it's all written down, accompanied by a well defined timeline.

Aside from my many plans, I only have one resolution this year: learn to keep my mouth shut.

Introducing El Pollo Loco

2011-12-17T00:26:00.003+01:00

I ended upin Cuba after a simple decision.

“Rux, doyou know I have 40 days off this year?”

“Do youwant to go with me to Cuba?”

“Sure!”

Rux wascollecting data for her thesis in dance anthropology; I was going to doabsolutely nothing for one whole month. Or at least that was the plan, because I wasinformally assigned the role of camera operator, which I accepted joyfully inorder to take part in interviews, meetings, shows and practices of (as itturned out) the greatest Rumberos in Havana and Matanzas.

Cuba through Karolina's lenses.

Casa sweet casa

2011-12-16T22:55:00.000+01:00

Travel guides, blogs and forums all agree: choosing a casa particular over a hotel gives tourists the opportunity to see how Cubans live, it is a guarantee of getting to know real Cuba. Actually, this is just an opportunity to spend less money on accommodation and to get an idea of how some houses have been transformed in order to feed some more touristic illusions.

Our first casa in Havana was definitely the best one and they also served the best breakfast, which in Cuba is a major plus, as the food in casas is one of the few things that are edible without consequences (leaving aside the consequences of eating eggs for breakfast for one whole month, i.e. an average of 60 eggs/ person and cholesterol levels we decided not to measure, at least for a while).

Do we have enough room for all the stuff we carried with us?

Coming up next: Brazilian telenovelas

The room with the best Cuban soundtrack

Guava is the new black

Our bathroom in Havana - breaking the last barriers of privacy

However, the main reason why we liked this casa was that in less than two days we befriended the right people and that's where the real fun began. We learned a lot about just how pushy Cuban guys can be and just how assertive we could be, we found out that you don't have to know somebody in order to like them, we partied in a club with house music located more or less at the end of the world and got there in a cab with the backseat covered in duct tape, paying for this a lot less than the normal fare and also understanding just how meaningful and special life insurance can be, we climbed up the roof and took some amazing photos of Havana, discovered the cheapest joints with the worst coffee and the best fried chicken, I improved my Spanish while Karolina was told she didn't really need any language in order to communicate, we almost got a ride back home in the police car and ended a party at the hospital at 2 a.m.

The other casa in Havana was the perfect example of how to squeeze money out of tourists without giving anything in exchange. One of the beds in our room broke when we sat on it, breakfast was a nightmare, we only had hot water in the morning and by night there was no water at all, except for the puddle on the floor where every morning we could admire the sight of wet, dead ants.

"Don't worry, we have many beds"

Wet ants. Dead.

And then there was the colonial house in Matanzas, so beautiful and spacious and welcoming we couldn't believe our eyes. It was safe, cozy and inspiring and after two very intense and crazy weeks in Havana we finally got a good dose of tranquility.

Patio in Matanzas

Where the rooms have no keys. And don't need any.

Script talks in Matanzas

Addicted to Cubita

The last stop before going back to Havana was Trinidad, where our casa did not differ much from a normal guesthouse anywhere else in the world and the interaction with real Cuban life was reduced to meeting our hosts - and they were Cubans.

Should have worn high heels to ring the doorbell

Almost ready to leave Trinidad

Going back to Havana was like going back home, to our old room and old habits. And on the last night, which deserves a post of its own, it turned out we were more at home and more adapted than we would have thought.

Las chicas habaneras

2011-12-11T18:02:00.001+01:00

I was prepared for jet-lag, mosquito bites, sunstroke, foodpoisoning and my intuition told me it would probably not be easy to adapt to aculture so different from my own. But I only came to understand the truedimension of this encounter by the end of the first week, when Iwas finally forced to exit my comfort zone.

During my first days in Havana I'd wander aimlessly, trying toabsorb the city with all my senses, to bring it closer, to uncover its layers andsee just how much of it would willingly unveil. It was obvious from the firsthours this would be a place where any attempt at acting like a local would befutile. And then, by the end of the second week, there came the surprise.Coming back from one of the interviews for my research, I found Karolinawaiting with E.L. and B. on the stairs in front of our house and it was thenthey told us we started looking Cuban. I took it rather as an unintended compliment to my fashionsense and its adaptability - I think it was the only thing that managed toadapt and only partly cover everything that was touristic about me. Thatwas where the line was drawn, almost by itself – visually, I was beginning to adapt. Any other kind of alterationwas off limits. There was no way to forget, not even for a second, that we were tourists, paying the price of witnessing the daily realities of a country bearing little or no comparison to any other. We spent most of our time walking in neighborhoods tourists are advised to stay away from, we got the chance to glance behind the curtain and tried to deal with the reality of daily life the way it really happens, with all its ups and downs. Seen from the backseat of an old Caddy, Cuba is splendid, happyand idyllic - the daily life of most Cubans is nothing more but localcolor to spice up a trip sprinkled with Mojitos, accessorized with Chet-shirts and salsa rhythms. Seen from behind closed doors of houses not meant for tourists, it loses its vintage-commy glam and everything worth knowing has a price and leaves traces.

But we were to discover that only later, because the first week in Havana was more of a crash course in a new reality. Slowly, we got used to:

a very specific type of interaction happening in the streets, whichwas funny for about three days, then became slightly annoying and by the end ofour first stay in Havana it was simply tiresome (needless to say, after a weekaway from Havana we missed it and couldn’t wait to get back): Psssst. Taxi lady? Beautiful! I love you!Where are you from? Naming a country – any country – would inevitablytrigger the following conversation: Oh (insert name of country)really?! I have a friend who has a friend who lives there / My brother livesthere with his wife / I was there in the ’80s. Are you interested in buying aCD with Cuban music? Do you know Buena Vista? Cigars? Do you dance salsa? I’m ateacher. The funniest part was having the Linda! I love you. Un chico para bailar salsa? routine played on usby men who weren't even looking our way – they do it as naturally as theybreathe. A guy walking and writing a message on his phone is likely tocompliment your smile without even taking his eyes off the screen, even whenyou're not smiling.
being stopped by the police at night because we were walkingwith Cubans and having to explain in my far from perfect Spanish that we had noproblem with it and that we actually wanted to be with them
kids in the streets asking for sweets, money, pens, my watch,jewelry for their mom
daily life unfolding in front of us in the streets – the Cubanconcept of privacy is so different from the European one that at some point Iwas actually wondering if there was one at all. Most of the houses in Havanahad their doors wide open, exposing everything that was inside, a living andbreathing museum of the quotidian, leaving little to the imagination and inmany cases making poverty almost tangible

telling little white lies, like on the night when we had tocover for the taxi driver who was doing illegal business and told the police wewere friends, not clients, coming back from a salsa party. It didn't take melong to learn this art which I still like to think of in terms of practicing anew type of discourse rather than lying and Karolina said I’d be leaving Cubawith very specific new skills
the washed up colors of the city, like a carousel that had onceseen happier and brighter days. Seen from above, everything colorful isprobably something tourist-oriented (casas particulares,hotels, museums, galleries). The rest is Havana.

prices changing over night – the same coffee in our favorite coffee-shop in Obispo had at least three different prices in just one week
verbal bills – this is something that happens quite often inrestaurants, most of the times they’ll charge 10 pesos for anything, even forrice so salty and stale it’s inedible
singing and dancing out of the blue – when doing house chores,when walking, when having dinner - this is not a myth, it really happens andit's amazing and contagious. They really do live their music, and most childrenseem to learn how to dance as soon as they start walking. What I do think is amyth is that of the carefree and happy people - the music is always there, butit's not always a celebration, it can go hand in hand with the shadow ofnostalgia, sadness, anger of frustration. Even at the library, I got usedto doing my reading with music, soundtrack provided by a very nice lady who wasall the time either chatting with her fellow workers or on the phone, yet mybooks were never late, not to mention I got some very good suggestions toenrich my bibliography. This was another thing I absolutely loved about Cuba -the time people have on their hands and the really really cheap phonecalls. During our first week in Havana, our landlord told me I could use theirphone to call everyone. Call all theplaces where they play rumba and ask about schedules, call all your contacts,call anybody you want. Just don't call your boyfriend, because then you won'tsee anything in Havana, you'll just spend hours on the phone.

And then there was that particularly ordinary Sunday afternoon in Centro Habana, on the sidewalk, waiting for the first interview for my research, watching the dogs sleeping in the sun and the kids playing, people walking with colorful birthday cakes and listening to the blend of salsa, bachata and reggaeton flowing out into the streets from open windows, cars and the phones of a few guys playing dominoes in front of a house that used to be blue in its better days. If our trip to Cuba had a better scriptwriter, this would have been the perfect moment for an illumination, for butterflies, for serenity. But there was nothing, not even the slightest inner twinge. It was rather static, more like a picture. It was simply being there, a feeling so new it was almost unsettling.

Autentica Cuba

2011-12-10T19:45:00.001+01:00

There's a song that says "It was the most beautiful island discovered by Columbus". In fact, Columbus himself called Cuba "the most beautiful land human eyes have ever seen". But there's so much more to it than just its beauty - Cuba is a dream come true, the place to be when you need to get away from it all, to put your mind and soul at peace. An unforgettable experience even for the most demanding and sophisticated tourists, for those whose hearts seek adventure and are not afraid to dive into the unknown, ready to be charmed and seduced.

Autentica Cuba awaits its visitors with endless beaches and a sea so clear blue it seems photoshopped, lazy afternoons in the shadow of palm trees and a coconut cocktail to keep the body refreshed and the mind relaxed, breathtaking landscapes and the amazing architecture of Habana Vieja, countless museums for a cultural infusion, rum, cigars, vintage cars, music and street performers, an exotic blend of rhythms that work wonders on the body and make it move before you know it. Autentica Cuba is summer love and flirting all year round, an exciting nightlife and more salsa parties than even the most passionate salsero would dream of, Guantanamera, Chan Chan and Hasta siempre, Comandante live on every street corner and the original Mojito and Daiquiri, Hemingway's favorites, at Bodeguita del Medio and El Floridita.

It's the promised land that will make all touristic fantasies come true, a treat for those seeking authentic experiences and life-lasting memories.

All pics courtesy of El Pollo Loco

And then there's Real Autentica Cuba. All in all, in one month, I'd say we spent about 2,5 days in Autentica Cuba, when we really needed a break from the epic proportions of culture shock, from the reality of non-touristic sights that made us want to turn our heads and look the other way, from our inner turmoil and contradictory emotions. Coming soon :)

For more Autentica Cuba pics, check out El Pollo Loco.

Midnight in Moscow

2011-11-05T23:22:00.000+01:00

Counting down the hours and listening to punk rock at T.G.I. Friday's, the only place at the airport providing both Internet and extra shots of caffeine.

Quote of the day:
"Do you want something to drink?"
"No, thank you."
"With milk?"
(Flight attendant on the plane to Moscow)

Next stop: Havana

2011-11-05T15:45:00.000+01:00

Almost a year and a half of daydreaming about this day (if we don't take into account the fact that I've been fantasizing about Cuba ever since I was a teenager, but back than it was more wishful thinking and less strategic planning), a year of research and extensive reading, a few good months of networking, updating contacts and asking for opinions and advice, three months of focusing on Cuban dancing, two weeks of shopping as if there was no tomorrow. 33 kg luggage allowance - probably half of it consisting of notebooks, laptops, cameras, tripods, cables, batteries and recording devices.

A month to discover all the wonders Cuba has to offer, to dance and remember how it feels like when dreams come true.

Playing cool in Bucharest

2011-09-17T23:22:00.006+02:00

Short, intense and very educative. This is the best way to sum my trip to Bucharest just two weeks ago.

When I had almost come to terms with the idea that my job was just as much a source of stress as of financial stability, I was pleasantly surprised to see things have changed for the better. Apparently all it takes to make a good impression on people who never gave you a chance is a lot of self confidence, some experience, a hint of diplomacy and of course a few really smart outfits.

All in all it wasn't as bad as I feared it would be. In fact, it was completely different form all the other trips I took to Bucharest ever since I got this job and was shipped off to Warsaw 2 years ago. This time it was tear free and almost stress free, with just enough time to meet the parents & friends and even explore the city. A week into my Shakespeare obsession, having asked the parents to bring over The Complete Works, there could be no better time to discover this:

Two Macbeths and one Hamlet later, I had the key to calm & serenity: if I can't always do only what I like, I can at least try to be more positive about the things I have to do and focus on the present, while planning a few things for the future but without living in the future entirely.

Sure, it's quite a comfortable situation, because I know now that at least the near future looks very, very bright and being patient will totally pay off.

Be not afraid of coffee breaks

2011-08-30T15:10:00.005+02:00

Whenever things seem to get out of hand my reactions are quite predictable. I either a) take a few deep breaths and try to bring some order into chaos or b) let chaos overwhelm me, panic, make a fuss and eventually pull myself together and bring some order into chaos. Apparently both a) and b) can be successfully replaced by c) Shakespeare. With a time consuming and nerve-wracking project at work, a translation I’m – what else – late with, major changes in my dance schedule and last minute research for my Cuban quest there was no better time to sit down, relax and enjoy Shakespeare’s biographies, The Complete Works, Bloom’s insanely prolific and delightful writing on everything and anything Shakespeare and all the Shakespeare inspired movies I could get my hands on. I think I’ve shown more interest in him than I have back when I was actually supposed to care and got graded for it. I am particularly fascinated by the futility of this undertaking and have totally surrendered to it. No essays waiting to be written, nobody expecting me to come up with some outrageous theories about the Sonnets, no pressure, no deadlines, just great reading experiences and quality time. Or at least partly. This might be the right time to confess that I have not listened to an audiobook until three days ago. They existed in a parallel universe I didn't take any interest in until recently, when I figured I could replace my usual playlist with something more appropriate to this sudden Elizabethan frenzy.

Enter Romeo and Juliet the audiobook in three different versions, all of them with one major flaw from where I stand: one voice which brings boredom to its highest peak attempts at bringing to life Sampson, Gregory, Benvolio, Tybalt and all the rest of the crew in Act I (didn't make it to Act II in any of the three versions). This is pretty much the literary equivalent of taking the icing off my cupcake. My Mom and my smarter friends eventually explained the difference between an audiobook and a play adapted for the radio - apparently this is what I was looking for, because I can't deal with Tybalt saying he hates peace as he hates hell and all Montagues as if he were reading the morning announcements. When I finally found the radio plays my mornings at the office became a lot brighter and needless to say very poetic. But with all the downloading that's been going on lately in my life I seem to have given my computer a few viruses but they seem to be quite harmless at the moment. I'm still waiting to see what might happen, hopefully they'll soon change all my reports, statistics and market analysis into sonnets. It would probably be the first time in Shakespearology that The Complete Works would be deemed incomplete because they lack CPV codes.

This morning, having iced my Shakespeare cupcake, I also added the sprinkles - a brilliant, funny and very fresh outlook upon Hamlet, from an American anthropologist who is taught the real meaning of the play by the tribe Tiv in West Africa: Shakespeare in the Bush by Laura Bohannan. The perfect treat for a prolonged and much needed coffee break for anyone who seeks a good read and some new perspectives, not necessarily on Shakespeare.

Slight alterations

2011-08-15T01:04:00.003+02:00

Inspired by the recent tourist invasion I seem to have finally managed to lighten up. Might be the sun, too, or maybe the first effects of the smartest decision I took this summer. Don't really know and for the first time in ages don't really care because I'm currently taking a break from questioning my every move and my every mood. The world does not come to an end if once in a while I procrastinate, don't plan everything in the tiniest detail, leave the house without make up, let things happen instead of making them happen. There's nothing wrong with a little change of rhythm, at least for a while, and with taking a few deep breaths instead of running around as if training for a marathon. I'm pretty sure my old habits will be back in no time, but until then I don't mind putting a few things on hold and taking it easy.

Spring break vs. summer holiday

2011-07-04T18:21:00.004+02:00

To be honest, I don't think I ever really liked summer holidays. I loved the excitement of the weeks before summer, all the planning, the expectations and the daydreaming but then, before I knew it, it was almost over, I was slightly bored and looking forward to my old routine (the horror! I always thought I did my best to avoid routine, turns out I respond well to limits, deadlines and countdowns and to an extent I need them in order to function properly).

I don't like it when the world stops for 2 or 3 months and everything from cocktails to festivals and is a constant reminder of the fact that it's that time of the year again, when we should take it slow, relax and enjoy whatever is there to be enjoyed. I dislike it even more when everybody else stops and I have to keep going.

Luckily, this year's belated summer holiday is enough of an adventure to keep my adrenaline levels really, really high. And lately I've been fantasizing about Lviv (can't possibly understand why but I won't go into details) so maybe despite the overwhelming amount of urgent tasks & stuff to do I should take a few days off and pack my bags. Very spring break like, right in the middle of summer.

A comparative note

2011-05-22T17:51:00.004+02:00

Last night, Iva and I stopped for a beer in one of the unbelievably crowded pubs on Warsaw's Krakowskie Przedmiescie. It took us ages to get near the bar, gliding past a compact crowd of guys screaming and cheering in front of the TV and another good half an hour to catch the attention of the bartenders, because they were all very busy watching some fight.

Then I remembered that ever since I started dancing one of the things I kept hearing from most of my male friends was that ballroom dancing is really, really gay. I bet that the majority of the guys gathered in front of the TV yesterday was of the same opinion and yet they were the ones staring at two half-naked and sweaty men lying on top of each other. Frankly, I don't really care what these manly, rugged, two-fisted men have to say about dancing - guys who do dance know just how manly the rumba or the tango can be, but I still find it really funny.

Let's compare and contrast.

Supposedly, this is gay:

And this is manly:

Am I the only one who sees the incongruity?

Voices

2011-05-08T16:18:00.003+02:00

No, not the voices in my head, I'll leave those for some other time.

Over the years - I think it's been six or seven years since my first translation - I have voiced quite a few characters, doing my best to make them sound as good as possible in Romanian. It hasn't always been easy or pleasant, but no matter how much I disliked the characters I was dealing with, in the end I was always satisfied because I had managed to give them a voice that was as close as it could possibly be to their original one.

Some other times it was pure bliss, like when I was translating Woody Allen or The Bourbon Kid or Sadler's Englishman in Paris (I can't help it, I have a soft spot for expats) or Frankie Blue in Tim Lott's White City Blue, a lovely story about growing up and growing apart and also my first translation. I voiced vampires, retired cops, young cops, teenagers, businessmen and their glitzy-glam secretaries, mentally disturbed parents who let their kid die, priests, nuns, rock stars, hairstylists, geeks, bartenders, lawyers - I have quite a gallery and I'm proud of each and every one of them.

And then there was another first. A tough one, a challenge comparable maybe only to Woody and in some ways even more difficult and puzzling.

Jack and his Ma live in a room. When he turns five, he discovers there is a world outside. It is with his voice that Emma Donoghue tells the superb yet terrifying story of Room, one of the best novels I've read recently and definitely very high on my list of favorite translations ever.

Home

2011-04-24T20:54:00.007+02:00

Yep, I definitely have all the reasons to miss it.

City on the edge of forever

2011-04-22T21:40:00.002+02:00

Remember that South Park episode when the boys relive landmark moments in their lives while the school bus is teetering on the edge of a cliff?

Although in a less dramatic situation, I've been having quite a lot of flashbacks lately, for no apparent reason. And where there's no reason, there's obviously room for speculation.

The other day I was talking to a fellow expat who told me that while he did miss his country and his friends and the things they did together, he had no flashbacks because Warsaw did not remind him at all of his hometown in Portugal. In my case, it's not so much a matter of Warsaw triggering memories of Romania, I think my brain has reached a stage where it would have the exact same reactions in any other city.

A sunset on a Friday takes me back to Bucharest on one of those early evenings when the air smells like spring and endless possibilities. I walk the streets of Warsaw and suddenly remember the long walks I used to take with my Gran on Sunday mornings, the smell of lilac reminds me of my orange room back at my parents’ place, I hear Cohen while shopping for dance shoes and suddenly waltz is the last thing on my mind, as I find myself daydreaming about Vama Veche, drinking coffee in the sand with salt on my lips and sand in my hair. Walking back home from work I'm reminded, again for no apparent reason, unless the sight of a white fluffy cat counts, of the nights spent with A. pretending to be studying for our exam in linguistics while actually watching movies about the fall of communism and planning to do some serious writing about it.

So here's my theory: if it's true what they say and love does indeed last three years, then my love story with Poland is about to come to an end. Exit passion, enter a more domestic-friendly feeling of settling down. Very home-like. And that, of course, brings back memories of the other place that has functioned in a similar way a few years back. And it's exactly at this point that I feel like making a change. Much like in all other aspects of my life, when it starts feeling too comfortable I feel an impetuous need to try out something new. (In other line of thought, that’s why dancing might be something I’ll be doing for a long time from now on, because it is far from feeling comfortable, and as I'm writing this my body is still recovering after today's rumba). I'm well aware there are still a lot of things to do in Poland, so many options to be explored and discovered and enjoyed to the fullest and that's one of the reasons why I'm not packing my bags yet. But I can't help but wonder if I could start over in a completely different setting. And just for how long can this game be played before it becomes boring, or tiresome, or both.

Field trip

2011-04-15T09:52:00.004+02:00

Until recently I used to think that the Masurian Lakes were a Polish urban myth. In summer, everyone escapes from the city and runs up north to spend a few quiet days in nature, in “the district of one thousand lakes”, as travel guides like to call it. Every year I’d hear at least half of my friends planning to spend a week “na Mazury” but I was never quite sure where that was or what was happening down by the lakes, so amazing as to be an obligatory holiday destination.

So when I heard there was an international ballroom dance competition held in the Masurian district, I figured it was a sign I should finally take another step towards becoming even more Polish and hopped on the bus to Mikolajki.

I obviously arrived too late to see the first part of the competition and too early to meet my friends who were still dancing (full reports of the competition, pics, videos and my random ramblings, here), so I decided to check out the wonders the city has to offer. I had to cope with the idea that there are no maps because apparently nobody needs them - true, the city is really small, but a map would come in handy, as there's more than just a yellow brick road to follow. And it’s a tough call, especially since all roads look almost identical and street lights are pretty uncommon, much like bars or any other coffee-serving facilities that are still open after 10 p.m. After a lot of walking – which also appears to be rather out of the ordinary – I finally found a Drink Bar open 24/7. The only customers were two very drunk middle-aged men and two not-so-drunk-yet middle aged women, quietly enjoying their drinks surrounded by plastic flowers and posters of football players who were probably famous before I was born. While drinking my coffee I realized that being out of my comfort zone – defined by huge crowds in the streets, full bars, cute bartenders and colorful outfits – makes me feel uneasy and that was a conclusion I was not ready for. To double the fun, I think I have overdosed on cop novels and detective stories in the past few months and, as always, fiction leaves very strong traces on my reality. Needless to say in the latest novel I translated a lot of creepy things happen in a small, dark town, with lots of bridges and narrow streets. Those creepy things usually involve young women being kidnapped, sexually abused and eventually murdered in well hidden basements. Not the best scenario to think about when walking over a bridge, hearing nothing but the wind and my own thoughts. Still, I think it is a major improvement, as I’m officially over The Book With No Name episode and vampires are no longer an option if I want to scare the hell out of myself.

Someday I will miss today

2011-04-12T01:42:00.002+02:00

A day that had nothing out of the ordinary. Early morning coffee and a good read, a work related project I actually like, midday dance lesson with Mirek and a lot of effort put into getting the Waltz right, lunch with Magda and Przemek and a walk in the rain, a bit of studying for the exam in visual anthropology, long talks with some of the people I miss most these days and again too little time to get everything done and get some much needed beauty sleep.

Then found the inscription "dreams are coming true" under a bottle cap. Decided to keep it.

And then spring came

2011-04-03T22:23:00.004+02:00

And smoking was once again allowed in bars - actually, still outside of them, only in the past few days it went back to being a guilty pleasure next to morning coffee rather than a sneaky tool aimed at singling out smokers as a lower species whose sole purpose was to be despised by the passers-by. Warsaw became colorful and sunny and multilingual, street artists went back to work and fruit started tasting like fruit again. And so my mild depression or whatever it was that prevented me from being me, making me perpetually sad and discontent and disoriented has started to slowly fade away. It finally left room for other activities, more pleasant than hiding under the covers, hating people and starting all my sentences with "no".

Although it's still a long way to full recovery and my happy moods, at least I can see the levels of grumpiness and negativity diminishing and that is enough of a reassurance for the time being.

And so, I am pleased to announce my new project - a chronicle of my dancing, my struggles to figure out all those spins and turns and muscle coordination, partnerwork, dance related events and competitions and of course a step-by-step recording of this year's highlight, my trip to Cuba in search of rumba: My Everything Is Perfect.

World Book Night

2011-03-06T00:16:00.006+01:00

Celebrated on the 5th of March in the UK, it generated quite an impressive number of articles and blog posts lately, as well as debates, pros and cons and alternative ideas to celebrate it. Not that anybody made a big fuss over it in Poland. One of the proposals caught my attention and I could see no reason why I shouldn't go along with it: "Let's each of us buy a book, preferably from an actual bookshop, or direct from a publisher. Any book. Write inside it Given in the spirit of World Book Night, March 5th 2011, and bought from (insert name of shop) - please enjoy and tell people about it. And give it to someone. Anyone. A friend or stranger, a library or school or doctor's surgery or anything. Then go home, and enjoy whatever you're reading yourself" (Nicola Morgan). I actually like it so much I'm thinking of transforming it into a personal tradition. This year I felt I should start with a classic:

It is, indeed, a win-win situation, even though giving books to strangers in the streets of Warsaw might seem odd, but who cares, it all comes down to spreading the joy of reading.

In other news, I'm wondering if bachata will have the same fate as lambada did a while ago and if in lack of acting skills it really is possible to flirt with someone you're not attracted to. I'm also trying to come to terms with the fact that my academic interests have taken an unexpected turn and judging by the last months I'd say dance anthropology is here to stay, kicking literature's ass and shaping my (foreseeable) future away from publishing, or anything I'd have expected, for that matter. But it's fun, rewarding and amazing, so no need for useless complications here.

When marimba rhythms start to play

2011-03-02T00:10:00.006+01:00

The other day I was telling a friend of mine that I have major issues hearing him speak incessantly about healthy eating and skin care when I realized I was no different. It seems like all I can talk about lately is dance, choreographies, competitions, Cuba, performances, muscles and technique. Last weekend I opened the Rux hotel for five young professional dancers who came to Warsaw for the Latin American Championship and it was one of the best nights in a long time. I'm surprised that my friends are still willing to go out with me, even though they know too well that after the question "how's your dancing going?" all hell breaks loose. So in order to celebrate this obsession that seems to follow the same patterns as drug addiction, here's a dance so wonderful it just has to be shared: Video Gay Ballroom Dancing - LA Times Magazine

Quote of the week

2011-02-14T23:27:00.004+01:00

A few days ago, at a geek-chic-meets-university-hip conference I heard something very appropriate given the recent course of events:

We spend money we don't have to buy things we don't need to make impressions that don't last on people we don't care about.

No idea who was the genius behind this saying, but there's nothing better to illustrate the days to come. As if I didn't have enough issues already. Time to start packing the fancy dresses, the high heels, the office outfits and what's left of my positive energy and hit the road.

Drinking in Poland

2011-02-07T22:21:00.003+01:00

Whenever I meet my non-Polish friends, sooner or later the adventures of immigrant life come up in our multilingual conversations. And while we all have different experiences and our very own culture shocks, there is one thing we are all amazed at can't seem to get used to: Polish drinking habits and the oddity of social life. While in most cases (or, at least, in those we are familiar with) drinking is something that happens when going out with friends and having fun, in Poland drinking is what happens so that people can have fun. If there was an alcohol ban in this country, nightlife would be an utter disaster or would simply cease to exist.

After a while, it stops being funny or interesting, which is not to say it can be ignored. The good part is everybody minds their own drinking and while having a non-alcoholic drink on a Saturday night might seem strange, nobody will try to talk you out of it. However, any foreigner might need a few tips to get used to this habit or at least to become familiar with it.

Here's my brief selection:

Lonely Planet

In Poland, drinking is a public affair; always ensure you have a group of friends with you to share your vodka
Vodka is always drunk in one gulp, regardless of size
Drinks are immediately refilled, so take time between each toast to sip some water or have a Polish snack
Drink responsibly! Unless you're Russian, never try to out-drink a Pole.

Lexiophiles - a short yet very efficient guide that helps people not be labeled as tourist in the first 2 minutes. To do that in Poland, one must "wear a track-suit, drink yourself senseless and then scream kurwa at anything that moves".

The bottom line is this: no matter how hard you tried to act like a local, unless you're the last one standing when the last bottle of vodka is empty at the end of a Polish drinking night, you'll never be anything but a foreigner.

Life before Google

2011-02-03T23:53:00.003+01:00

Yesterday, at the embassy of a lovely country with even lovelier dancing traditions we were advised to ask Google everything we wanted to know about visas, travel insurance, accommodation and university life. I sort of thought it went without saying that we had done our homework and that we were there for a reason - extra info, double checking, making sure we had all the details sorted out before the big trip. Apparently it wasn't as clear for the lady who was supposed to be a source of information somewhat more trustworthy than Google.

It was Kafka all over again and something tells me it was only the beginning.

Monday morning eye candy

2011-01-24T15:49:00.005+01:00

Just what I needed

2011-01-22T19:15:00.004+01:00

I'm down with the flu and I think it's man flu because I'm whiny, helpless and moody.

But I may have found the ingredients that will guarantee a quick and spectacular comeback: pumpkin soup, tea and oranges, disaster films, glossy magazines, aloe extract, Kurt Vonnegut, language blogs, eucalyptus oil and my all time favorite - cough pills. Lots of them. The worst part is I already missed two dance classes and despite the fogginess in my brain and the cough-pill induced lack of reaction, I can see how this might affect my mood and mental balance on a long term if I don't get back to my old self by Monday morning.

For now, the world seems to be made of cotton candy, I'm sleepy, lazy and mellow.

Translations gone wrong

2011-01-19T00:31:00.003+01:00

Mine. And other people's.

Mine have once again managed to mess up my life, as if they had a will of their own. As if every now and then, mostly when things are looking normal and calm, a new translation comes to life to remind me I am getting dangerously close to the deadline. And so I panic. Which on the one hand is good because it adds up to the quality of my work - or maybe not? I couldn't tell, since not a single translation has been done without the stress factor. Oddly enough, even though I almost never finish my translations on time, I can't imagine life without them and there's nothing I'd give them up for. It just gets a little messy when I have to mix them with my day job. And my dance school. And the new salsa school, the diploma paper, the trip and its million little details, Portuguese lessons, social life and the Uni. Maxi thinks I have a schedule busy beyond sanity. I sometimes think she's right, some other times I think she's overreacting.

Luckily in my case a translation gone wrong means a month or two of hysteria, less sleep than usual and a hint of nostalgia when the process is over. When translation goes wrong and there's a brand involved then proportions change, campaigns fail and entire markets are disillusioned. Let it never be said that a translator's job is easy and of little relevance. Examples follow, as this was actually the purpose of my whiny digression:

Scandinavian vacuum manufacturer Electrolux in the US: "Nothing sucks like an Electrolux"

Coors beer in Spain: "Turn it loose" translated as "You will suffer from diarrhoea"

Frank Perdue's chicken in Spain: "It takes a strong man to make a tender chicken" translated as "It takes an aroused man to make a chicken affectionate"

Pepsi in Taiwan: "Come alive with the Pepsi generation" translated as "Pepsi will bring your ancestors back from the dead"

(source: Matt Haig, Brand Failures)

And that brings me to the last order of business on today's agenda - I was about to make an attempt at translating from Portuguese a very funny post about a phenomenon we are currently dealing with in Poland, namely cinnamon hysteria. It's only obvious why I changed my mind, but you might want to give it a try, especially if wherever you go you are offered products that smel and taste like cinnamon simply because it's winter (luckily Warsaw looks like early autumn and smells like city dirt, which is definitely not what we might call a typical Polish winter and it's just another perfect reason to postpone some more and take El Santino out for a ride). Anyway, here's the cinnamon paranoia, I'm off to find some more excuses.

On the 12th day of Christmas

2011-01-05T23:09:00.003+01:00

The quest for the perfect Christmas present has been a long and tiresome process, not so much for me (I actually enjoyed it) but for the people around me, most of them unwillingly involved in my pursuit. It all began with the chocolate chestnut which Wedel no longer sold when I started Christmas shopping. Then there came designer cupcakes. Truffles. A chocolate gay fish. A chocolate mermaid. A chocolate rabbit. A seashell. Ginger and cinnamon bars. One way tickets to Mexico. Liquid dishwasher. Broken Christmas tree decorations. Out of date mayo. A portable ashtray. Indian spices. Light bulbs. Hot sugar massage. Mistletoe. And then finally, just when I was about to abandon all hope, I found the perfect present:

Strategic planning

2011-01-02T01:31:00.003+01:00

Last year was the first time I made New Year's resolutions and surprisingly enough I even managed to keep them. Might have been beginner's luck or it may be that keeping resolutions is not that hard but whatever it was made me think I could take things to the next level this year.

Not only do I have resolutions, I have a plan, a bibliography and a dress. It's for the first time ever that I have a vision rather than a somewhat blurry image of the whole year, the agenda is already set, there's almost no room for anything else because all the details have to be taken care of and I'm just looking forward to it. I'm excited, enthusiastic and convinced that this is one of the smartest, boldest and most creative plans I've ever had.

When dancing meets research in a faraway land, the outcome can only be fabulous.

Holiday plans

2010-12-07T00:30:00.003+01:00

photo: bookshelfporn

Me and my big mouth

2010-12-02T02:54:00.003+01:00

I spoke too soon. I should have never made any remarks about the wonders of Polish winter and the lack of snow. It's now official: no more El Santino, no more outdoor activities for at least three months, no more summer dresses mixed with warm blazers, scarfs and heavy boots. Yeti chic is the only trend that matters. I can smell a new ice age right outside my window. I also smell presents, cupcakes and parties. There's no better time to be happy, bright, playful and in love. Spring is almost around the corner.

Hibernation

2010-11-28T23:41:00.004+01:00

Although I'm overloaded with work and until mid-December I'll barely have time to breathe, whenever I do have a few precious hours for myself I tend to slow down and try not to waste any valuable energy. This means that lately I tried to stick to the basics, like dancing, reading about social change and traditional dances in Cuba, translating and focusing mostly on indoor activities, although it was with heavy heart that I gave El Santino a well deserved break. There's actually surprisingly little snow on the ground and I guess it might still be safe to ride the bike to work.

Lately I've been thinking about seeing a fortune teller, although I don't really have any important questions to ask or major decisions to make. Also, I'm afraid it might mess up my karma, which is something I'd rather avoid, especially since I managed to survive the month of November, famous all over Poland for being the most depressing of them all, without even the slightest mental discomfort.

Frivolities of the past

2010-11-12T00:35:00.006+01:00

We exchanged earrings in B52 one Sunday morning over Cuba Libre and so began the most outdoor romantic involvement in my life. The setting couldn't have been more appropriate: Bucharest in spring, when the air smells like rain but there's not a cloud in sight, countless parks and gardens and hidden terraces. It was pure bliss while it lasted, but by the end of May it was more than obvious that it couldn't last much longer. It felt as if there were no words left to say, as if we he said them all. We broke up on my birthday and all I remember from that last time we met is my green silk scarf, the awkwardness of the moment, his hand holding mine on the way to the bus stop and the ladybird.

Perhaps the timing wasn't right or we were too young or spring simply isn't the best season for me when it comes to matters of the heart. Then summer came and even though it wasn't a summer to remember, like the incredibly long, hot and eventful summer of 2001, it is safe to assume that it was probably the fastest way to full recovery.

Every once in a while all the stuffed animals, jewelry, vinyl discs, dried flowers, souvenirs collected from flea markets and other trifles, traces of more or less disastruous relationships, end up in a box that spends a few weeks under my bed and eventually vanishes into oblivion. I only keep books, because fiction tends to take a life of its own shortly after it ends up on my shelf, no matter how it ends up there. If it's good, it stays. Luckily, most of the men in my life had very good taste in literature.

The ladybird is the only present I kept over the years. At first because I couldn't let go, later because I kept wondering what it could have been like, under different circumstances, with better timing and lately because it became a much needed reminder of those innocent and amazing years when things only seemed complicated but were in fact simple, honest and unproblematic.

Nathan

2010-11-08T21:53:00.005+01:00

It never occurred to me that I might be taking things for granted when it comes to blogging and bloggers. There's a few blogs I came to depend on, much like I depend on my morning coffee.

A few days ago, Nathan Bransford, literary agent and one of my favorite bloggers of all times, announced he was leaving the industry. I read his post late on Sunday, after my intense and illuminating weekend, and I came to realize just how much I was going to miss his advice, his insights, his sense of humor, his tips and tricks. Although the industry in Romania (and Poland, for that matter) has a lot of growing up to do until it can reach a level comparable to the one Nathan used to write about - and by a lot I mean I'm afraid I won't be around to see the miracle happen - it still feels odd knowing that I won't be relying on his teachings anymore, at least not in the way I used to until now.

I can't even remember how many times I quoted him when talking to my friends about the latest developments in our exotic, Eastern-European, self-centered and immature literary world and just how much I wished we had a Nathan of our own - something tells me things would have looked a lot better than they do at this point, the industry would have been healthier and our authors would have stopped being so smug and finally understood it was their readers who count most.

I can only hope he'll stick around, as he promised, posting about books and writing and anything else that might appear on the agenda - I know I'll be happy to follow him and learn a thing or two on the way.

Illuminations

2010-11-07T20:27:00.004+01:00

This has definitely been on of the most intense weekends in a long time. A little old school, reminding me of the days when I could function with very little or no sleep and lots of activities. I was very happy to discover I could still do that, although I quickly understood it was all very deceiving and that the difference between early twenties and mid twenties lies in the effects of sleepless nights.

But apparently lack of sleep can be illuminating. Or at least it was in this particular case. That and the fact that I have some really smart friends :)

I finally understood what Bilus meant when speaking about "the path with a heart". I knew I was walking on mine the minute I stopped wondering "what if", when I settled down and looked at all my projects and understood what was worth keeping and what I was ready to let go. The path with a heart is the one that gives you butterflies every morning because you wake up and you know you're going to take a few more steps on that path and it instantly brightens up your day.
In the academic world, the more Eastern European you are, it is expected of you to research your own culture. Ana made a very good point while we were debating the paper I'm currently researching for my studies: no one will have anything against a research conducted in Latin America by a person coming from Western Europe, but they will find it strange if a Romanian does it, and it's equally true for students coming from other less known countries. The fact that I'm studying gender roles in the history of Latin dance seems to have provoked a mild dissatisfaction at the Uni, simply because Romanian culture appears to be very exotic and, truth be told, little known in Poland, so everybody expected me to be writing about it. It's this type of labeling that bothers the hell out of me because it makes people miss the big picture. In this case, my coordinator saw my nationality first and my fabulous research came second, which means I have to work twice as hard to convince him - and not because my idea was not good enough, but rather because it did not match his expectations, built simply on some information he had about me before we even met.
Speaking of cultural exchange and peculiarities of different cultures, there's one thing that I could not get used to in Poland, even though I've been systematically exposed to the phenomenon and I was everybody's favorite bartender for a year: what's with the whole excessive drinking thing? Just when I was about to stop asking questions and take things as they are, I had an edifying talk with Karolina (she's Polish, btw) while we were out celebrating the first anniversary of Nowy Wspanialy Swiat, one of Warsaw's hot-spots: it is wrong and not normal to be happy when we meet guys who only drink every so often. This drinking issue should not be the first thing to come to our minds when meeting someone new, but unfortunately it does and it seems to be increasingly difficult to find guys who can handle their liquor.
Went to see Herta Muller and was really, really disappointed. Mostly because I wasted two hours getting bored and trying to figure out an elegant way to leave the meeting. Monica summed it up perfectly: if the meeting organized in Bucharest was a circus, this felt like a trip to a museum where you're not allowed to touch, take pictures, ask questions but instead you get very dull explanations. It was not the first time I got extremely bored at such a meeting and I don't know if the organizers are to blame or if it's best to just let writers do their thing and not ask them to perform on stage - they're often less remarkable than their books. At some point, I fell asleep for a few seconds and the only reason why I didn't sleep until the end was that I didn't want to damage my hair because I was going dancing. Turns out my partner and I still have lead & follow issues, which is not exactly surprising but it can be very annoying because it made us waste valuable dancing time arguing. Now I'm pretty sure one of us will resort to murder sooner or later.

It's the first time since I moved to Poland that I'm not depressed in November. True, it's only been a week, but something tells me I might be safe this time.

Work in progress and a hint of neurosis

2010-11-04T23:35:00.003+01:00

Sometimes, dancing can lead to drama in the blink of an eye. Last week's trainings almost led to murder. So today, when I met Karolina to add the final touches to my dress, I began to wonder if the black tulle should serve its initial purpose and be transformed into a flounce that will make underarm turns look even more fabulous than they normally do, or if I should just wear it as a veil and, while still in mourning, start looking for another partner.

Either way, the dress is a thing of beauty and I can't wait for our first dance. This might be the reason why I won't resort to any drastic measures, at least not in the foreseeable future.

Tranquility. With a twist

2010-10-25T01:52:00.004+02:00

Things are finally looking normal around here. Everything appears to be in order, no mismatches, no dramas, no bad karma. Even time management doesn't seem to be an issue anymore and that is truly amazing. I actually had time to wander the streets of Praga with one of my friends, looking for the perfect fabric for my first authentic rumba dress. It was easier than we expected, and the fact that K. can do wonders with nothing more but scissors and a sewing machine translates into a fabulous dress that's already on its way, ready to meet my new dance shoes.

I recently figured it took me almost 8 months to recover from this spring's emotional equivalent of the crash of 1929. It dawned on me one sunny, windy morning, while I was walking to work and the air smelled just like it did back in spring, when I spent a few weeks learning to control my tears and trying to bring myself back on track. It did take me a lot of time to be back to my old self and see things clearly, and I also learned there are emotional dramas that I can overcome and others I have to learn to live with. I miss my Gran every single day, with no exception, and this has probably been the toughest experience I ever went through. The wound is still there, still open and something tells me it's going to stay that way. In a way, I don't think I'd want it to close.

Finding my old self and realizing we can still relate could only mean one thing: it's time to get back in the game, which in this case means it's time to go back to school. This was the missing piece in my puzzle: the Uni. And a program so complex and smart, yet relaxed and dynamic, it almost appears to have been tailored especially for me, just like the black satin rumba dress.

I'm looking at a week off and surprisingly I'm planning to spend it in the coziness of my vanilla scented, smoke free apartment (I think I quit smoking, although this seems like a very serious decision and I'm not sure it's irreversible), sleeping late, editing the translation I'm finally done with, spending long hours with Kindle and all the wonderful books I already filled his head with, only leaving the house to go to the library and to dance practice. And Kato, later this week. It's about time I went back.

Of course it's peaceful and serene times like these that give birth to the most outrageous and implausible thoughts which, in my case, instantly turn into plans. I think change might be around the corner, although for the time being it does not involve any new cities, or at least not new homes in new cities, but rather a lot of research. It does, however, involve other serious changes and I just love the way life writes its own scenarios, coming up with twists of events I wouldn't have thought possible.

Autumn recipe

2010-10-14T01:49:00.003+02:00

Just when I was about to say October can't possibly get any better, I was surprised to discover it actually can. And all it takes is some really good friends, a film festival, breakfast made by somebody else, red nail polish, salsa nights and extra dance lessons, lattes in the afternoon sun, plane tickets to Lisbon, cute bartenders, summer dresses on sale, exhibition openings and lots of fiction. I think this might be the perfect antidote for Polish autumn depression.

Arts and crafts

2010-10-05T23:30:00.004+02:00

Shoes of Prey was born out of desire.

We all know that the spark of shoe-desire takes just a moment to take hold, and then the need to find that perfect shoe is intoxicating.

At last, the search is over. Is there anything more fabulous than designing your own shoes and wearing your creation? I spent way too much time studying leather samples and testing shapes, sizes, decorations and colors. I wouldn't have stopped if it weren't for my to do lists, and for the list prioritizing the to do lists. Still, the perfect shoe is just a few clicks away.

Autumn can't get any better, can it?

Beginnings and middles

2010-10-03T23:54:00.003+02:00

One year ago, after a hardcore September which left me traumatized for many months, October seemed to open endless new possibilities, as all beginnings do. That was happening only a year after another radical change and I was starting to fear I was developing a pattern. All I wanted was for this October to find me in the middle of something - anything, as long as I was in the middle. And it did. It found me working on a translation I'm rather late with, but that's not unusual, putting together a work-related project I actually like, learning Portuguese and dancing the cha cha. Since moving to Warsaw, I don't think I've been more relaxed, more in control and more energized than I am now. That's the fun part about being in the middle of something and I'm planning to enjoy it as much as I can. I know myself too well and I can bet this will not last forever and there will come a time when everything will seem dull and predictable. Then I'll give everything up for a new beginning and a new city.

Last week, something wonderful happened: everybody seems to have started migrating to Warsaw. Some of my friends moved here (three in one week), some others stopped in for short visits while others are currently getting ready for their trips to Warsaw. This, of course, means very little sleep, a full house, phones ringing 24/7, running around from the airport to the train station and back but most of all a lot of fun. And that's probably the best compensation for last year's somewhat lonely and confusing October.

Immigraniada

2010-09-17T22:35:00.004+02:00

Once again, I'm out of superlatives. Even though I've watched this video over and over again it still gives me goose bumps.

And I can't help but quote Eugene on immigration and the freedom to choose one's place in the world, to explore until you feel you're in the right place. After all, as they say, as we're crossing border after border, we realize the difference is none:

It's a video we always wanted to make, because it completes our story. It's very autobiographical, and tells a story about eight people who are all immigrants, who came to pursue something in new york city. That's our biography. But on the other hand, like it coincides with the idealistic belief that people shall always be free to choose the place of their residence. It's an antidote to the politics around the world that have dictated separation and division of communities. Immigration is a crucial part of this idea of world citizenship. In the past, immigration was mostly for economic reasons, or because of natural disaster or war. But now, more and more often it's an intellectual choice, and an important evolutionary process for the planet. More people are committed to being uniters of communities and cultures, to being people who transcend the understanding of different cultures, people who live by the idea that there is no identity but that of a human being.

Dilemmas: autumn/winter collection

2010-09-15T23:14:00.006+02:00

I'm just dying to know when did children become accepted in hair salons for normal people?

Hair dying is a complex ritual which requires an appropriate setting, good music, coffee, books and light hearted conversations with other women who understand and appreciate the magic that happens behind closed doors in beauty salons. Yesterday, a screaming three year old with bladder control issues almost ruined my perfect evening. Apparently, children are not big fans of having their hair cut and when their mothers insists on doing so all hell breaks loose. The one thing I will never understand is why parents think that hysterical children who piss themselves and become purple from all the screaming are cute. Luckily, my color turned out great although for a minute I was afraid it might be affected by all the drama.

But this is nothing compared to what I'm about to go through if Polish experts are right. Not children related, still equally annoying. It seems like this year we will be faced with the most severe winter in the last millennium. Winter in Poland is a dreadful experience and I'd be happy to find a way to avoid it even under normal circumstances. Now, with a new ice age lurking on the horizon, the only thing I can think of is a long and well deserved holiday in the sun and the sooner the better. This of course will generate a new time management crisis in the first months of 2011 and I'm already looking forward to it.

I'd be really grateful if, for a long time from now on, winter and children were the only things to complain about.

The end of art

2010-09-12T23:12:00.003+02:00

Dangerous footwear

2010-09-08T21:15:00.002+02:00

Ever since we saw Carrie Bradshaw chasing Mr. Big all over Manhattan in her Manolos, we seem to have decided it was ok to run in our stilettos. Not ok, especially when there's a bike involved and a red traffic light. Now El Santino is bruised - again! - and I'm traumatized by women in high heels. There are few things worse than a woman wearing her shoes as if they were some medieval instrument of torture, but there's an excuse even for that. No excuse for jumping in front of my bike in the middle of the street, tripping and lying there looking dumb and helpless. I'm a huge fan of heels but I'm seriously beginning to think that the world would be a better place if we all knew just how high is high enough.

It's just not working

2010-09-02T01:06:00.003+02:00

I really did my best.

Seems like my relationships with cities have almost the same pattern as my relationships with people. After a while, the butterflies simply won't come back. But instead of enjoying the coziness and serenity that supposedly come along when the butterflies are gone, I find myself in a strange situation: longing for something I don't have anymore, living with the vague memory of how things used to be, incapable of letting go because I hope those feelings will be back or because I'm afraid I won't find something better and in the meantime seeking fun and challenges elsewhere.

I did my best to rediscover Warsaw and see it from a different perspective. Not working. Tried to remember just how much I missed it and how awful it felt being away, back in those days when all I wanted was to live here. Not working either.

My little experiment did help me discover some new artists, a few pubs and the best coffee in the city, but the magic is gone, no doubt about it. And yet Warsaw still feels like home and something tells me I'd have huge regrets if I left it now, so maybe this time I'll try to make an exception and see what happens after the butterflies are gone.

Starting over

2010-08-30T16:30:00.005+02:00

I think today was the first day of autumn. The air smelled like school.

This of course can only mean one thing: it's time to shop for personalized stationery and get back in the game. Looking forward to spending endless hours at the library, writing essays and getting little or no sleep before an exam. The nerd in me hasn't been so happy in a long time.

The art of baking gingerbread

2010-08-30T01:57:00.007+02:00

Let it never be said that my kitchen skills are limited to making coffee and toast. But for my talents to shine it takes a very special setting, super secret ingredients from far away lands, a magic spell and an oven that works miracles in less than three minutes. It is very likely that baking will not become part of my daily routine, but it was fun to experiment it in the Museum of Gingerbread in Torun.

While mixing the ingredients and rolling dough I found out that the essential ingredient for gingerbread is black pepper (?) and also the Polish names for different types of flour, which was definitely the most useless information I've gotten in ages, both from a practical and a linguistic point of view.

While waiting for the gingerbread to bake some of us had to kneel in front of the oven and pray, which was even more disturbing as we were supposed to do it in Polish. Luckily the Master of Gingerbread, under whose guidance we baked the cookies, read our impure thoughts about gingerbread and allowed us to finish our prayer before we even started it.

And finally, the proof that I can bake (and in case anyone has any doubts, my friend Karolina can give a firsthand account of this experience).

Baking gingerbread was just one of the highlights of our trip to Torun. We also found out about the end of art and accidentally participated in a wedding. But the best thing about it was that I finally came to understand some crucial aspects of my falling in and out of love with Warsaw. Soon to be revealed.

Indoor gardening

2010-08-28T12:52:00.005+02:00

There are days when I feel very grown-up and responsible. The reasons for feeling this way may vary from wearing a serious outfit to doing a great job with one of my projects to averting a crisis or to being financially independent from my parents for more than 12 months in a row. Some other times, it all comes down to growing basil. This is particularly enjoyable as it has a slight retro hint - I sometimes think I might be able, in the not so distant future, to grow my own food and never have to eat fruit & veggies that taste like plastic.

It takes the average basil about two weeks to die under my careful and loving eye. In the end, I tell myself, it's only a plant I would have probably eaten sooner or later, so why bother? Good thing I don't plan on taking care of a dog, a cat or even a goldfish. Failure would be almost inevitable and too hard to stomach.

Flashbacks

2010-08-27T22:17:00.005+02:00

It was only a few years ago that we were all still in Bucharest, planning and dreaming and hoping to change literature and the world, convinced that the impossible was possible even if we were well aware of just how naive we were. Back in those days our hearts were as open as our agendas and we somehow managed to deal with the lack of sleep and disorganized schedules a lot easier than we do now. Apparently it did wonders for our creativity.

And there was no better feeling than getting our hands on an unpublished manuscript that we got to review for our magazine before everyone else did or to publishing an interview with an author we adored or to finally meeting a deadline - this actually only happened a few times and that's what made it memorable.

I remembered all of these things when reading one of the million articles published these days about Jonathan Franzen's new novel. If you're into this whole Franzen frenzy, you can find the article here. This fragment is a very accurate description of how things used to be. Surely, proportions do not bare comparison but the feeling is the same. It's one of those feelings I haven't had in quite a while and that makes me just a bit nostalgic:

So yes, I've read the new Franzen. In literary circles this is the equivalent of getting hold of the new YSL coat two months before it arrives in stores, or snaffling the new Radiohead album before they give it away for free. Truly, having some contraband Franzen in the Guardian office is like bringing pure cocaine powder into a record label company.

Language delights

2010-08-23T15:24:00.002+02:00

In Portuguese, a casual relationship is called "a colorful friendship" (amizade colorida).

Closed chapters

2010-08-21T00:04:00.004+02:00

Over the years I have happily closed some of the chapters in my life and celebrated their transformation into memories. I've kept others open for as long as I could, simply because they were too fabulous to close. And then there are uncertain chapters, the ones I'd like to think were still open, but going back to them feels rather unnatural and odd. Since I can't decide what to do with them, I just leave them as they are, hoping that one day I might go back but knowing for a fact that I won't.

Summer schools fall under this last category. For about eight years, they were the thing to look forward to every summer. New places, new languages, new people, everything on fast forward, a world away from daily routine, with an intensity that left me wanting more every time. All the promises made and never kept - I'll write / call / come visit / never forget you and the easy way out - it's one of the unwritten rules of summer schools, nobody actually believes that promises will be kept, but everybody knows summer is not complete without them.

I got to thinking about this a few days ago, when it dawned on me that my love for Warsaw, before moving here and making it my sort of home, was not so much about the city itself, but about the people. And the people who made everything so perfect, so fresh and fun were not the locals, but the ones I had met during summer schools.

Something tells me the age of academic tourism is over. Once you're out of the circuit, it's tough to get back in and it may even turn out to be a huge disappointment. But that's a risk I'd be willing to take, for the sake of those few weeks filled with the excitement of discoveries and promises never kept.

Ballroom tattoos. And a note on the Anonymous author of The Bourbon Kid

2010-08-11T23:12:00.004+02:00

A lot of new arrivals on this blog lately and it seems like this summer everyone is after two things: dancing and books. Isn't that just lovely?

Apparently, everyone in France is searching for the Anonymous author of The Book With No Name and this quest brings some of the readers here. Which is nice, but this is not the best place to look for that information.

Those who are not that much into reading are either planning to get tattoos or take up ballroom dancing or both and so they show up here looking for ballroom dancing tattoos or wondering if tattoos are allowed in ballroom dancing.

Let's take them one at a time and start with the facts, then we'll take a look at fiction.

Ballroom dancing and tattoos. Yes, they can go hand in hand, although it's probably not a great idea. There's no rule against tattoos in ballroom dancing however if you do decide to get a tattoo and still compete it would be best to go for something small, preferably in a place that's not exposed. After all, you should remember that ballroom dancing started as a form of social dancing for the privileged (now think of those who used to have tattoos back when ballroom dancing became increasingly popular and you'll know why they're not exactly compatible). True, the term has changed its meaning and now refers to International Standard and International Latin style dances but that does not mean everything has become acceptable overnight. If, however, you're just dancing for fun (and dancing is a lot of fun, not to mention it can teach you a thing or two about compromising, teamwork and trust) then there's really no argument against tattoos. I'm very much enjoying mine and I think they're even more beautiful while I'm dancing. Here you can read more about what's allowed and what's not allowed in competitive dancing.

Moving on to The Bourbon Kid and his Anonymous author, the answer is simple and it's right there in front of you, as long as you learn to read between the lines and stop listening to what everybody says/writes about him. All it takes is a little effort and a little imagination. But before anything else you should respect the fictional pact you make with the author the minute you open the books (my advice is to try to add your own amendments to it, see if it works).

Enough is enough

2010-08-10T22:43:00.004+02:00

It appears some people in Poland simply can't let go. So there was a tragedy. And the way people gathered in April in front of the Presidential Palace to pay respects to their late president and the victims of the Smolensk plane crash was amazing. They proved, once again, that they can be united and solemn and avoid transforming history's sinister ironies into a cheap show for the whole world to watch.

Until about a week ago, when it was finally decided to remove the memorial cross that stands in front of the Presidential Palace. Hundreds of people have been protesting ever since, blocking the cross, defending it, tying themselves to it and insisting it be kept on state ground rather than on church ground - at least until a permanent monument is built at the site.

While in April it was perfectly fine to take a detour to get to work and I had all the sympathy in the world for the people standing outside the palace and for their grief, now I find it annoying as hell and I totally agree with my Polish friends who think this whole circus is really embarrassing and it's not doing anybody any good.

Luckily, most of the people in this country are still sane. Others even find the whole incident funny and make their point loud and clear:

Coming soon in front of the Presidential Palace

photo: Tomek Oginski

Patterns

2010-08-05T21:20:00.003+02:00

Turns out being 26 is as confusing and annoying as being 16. Ten years ago, I used to think that my problems were bigger than anybody else's because they were mine and the world just didn't seem to understand this or to care. As the years passed I gained some sense of proportions and while I'm still selfish and think my problems are as real as can be even when they're not, I'm at least trying not to make such a big deal out of it. But this still doesn't change the fact that I'm clueless and have no idea what the next step should be.

The good news, however, is that if this is a cycle then all I have to do is wait one more year and things will be clear, I'll have a plan, a map, a new destination and some brand new adventures on the horizon.

In the meantime I am pleased to discover that dancing is a more efficient therapy than lying on a couch and whining about my fictional problems. And even if it fails to put me back on track, at least when that moment comes, I'll be more than happy to practise my steps on the new found path.

The Tempest & the black chicken

2010-08-01T20:29:00.006+02:00

Two weeks into my "local tourist in Warsaw" project, things are going quite well although I still seem to grab with both hands any opportunity to get out of the city. Well, maybe not any opportunity, just those that sound really, really good, like a weekend spent partly at the beach, partly at the theater, seeing Shakespeare get the Polski treatment in three cities and more than 20 venues down by the sea. My friend M. was coordinating a project for the Romanian Cultural Institute, as part of the Shakespeare International Festival, and since it wasn't the first time I made some volunteer work promoting Ro culture, I thought my efforts would be compensated with lazy mornings at the beach, performances, Margaritas and late night parties. This was my first error of judgement: having met, along the years, some amazing artists from Romania, I almost forgot not everyone back home is cool and entertaining. There's one thing I can't come to terms with: people who are arrogant and full of themselves without having the goods to back this up with. I also dislike boring people, but that's something I learned to tolerate at least to an extent. But when boring meets arrogant meets stupid, I find it rather difficult to be nice and smile and pretend I'm amazed at the simulation of talent and creativity. And the saddest part is that one such encounter can shade off all the other great experiences, reminding me of the things that really annoyed me back in Ro. So my weekend was not as relaxing as I dreamed it would be, and the icing on my cupcake were a very smug director and a perpetual malcontent douchebag scenographer, a black chicken that made an appearance at the beginning of the play (I still don't get the connection between Shakespeare's Tempest and the chicken, but I'm sure they were on to something), a performance that relied on the talent of 3 actors out of a dozen and way too many hours spent backstage.

In the end, the wheel turned on the last day, after a splendid interview with the director of the Shakespeare Festival, a man so amazing and charming and wise who in the end made me understand something that's commonsensical, but appeared to have slipped my mind for a short while: I'm not at all absurd when expecting some people (and by some I mean those in culture & the arts) to be smart, well-educated and to have a spark. It is entirely possible, and it can even justify arrogance and self sufficiency.

The boys are back in town

2010-07-20T23:15:00.003+02:00

Dreams will be crushed. Deals will be made. And blood will be spilled.

Shift in perspective

2010-07-20T22:20:00.004+02:00

It is my firm belief that it is impossible to "act like a local" while on vacation in a foreign city. Sure, maps and guides and booklets spice up their recommendations with tips and tricks for those who wish to take a closer look and enjoy "an authentic experience", but you are not a local until you become one. And that doesn't happen overnight and it's most of the times less pleasant than it might seem.

But is the opposite possible? After almost a year in Warsaw, could I still act like a tourist and not like the expat that I am? Would I still find it charming and spectacular, like I did during my first summer spent here? Can I reinvent the city that feels more "at home" than any other home I've ever had?

Two years ago, Warsaw would have been the best scenario for summer. Is it too late now? There's only one way to find out. Since I have to be here, I might as well pretend I'm on vacation and start planning accordingly.

Miscalculations

2010-07-19T01:18:00.004+02:00

So I'm back. And as if I didn't have enough problems already, I just realized I have major time management issues. This is not something new in itself, but such a conclusion can turn out to be catastrophic when associated with temperatures over 35 degrees for three days in a row. Apparently, heat can be very depressing.

Because of last year's traumatic experience - I spent my summer working - I decided to award myself this year and so I kept vacationing without thinking about the consequences of my deeds (this isn't something new either). I don't regret any of my vacations and I still think they were this year's highlights, what I do regret is not having tried to negotiate better terms when I signed a contract and decided to get a full time job. I should have made it clear that 21 days were simply not enough for all the traveling I was planning to do, for all the concerts I wanted to see and for all the lazy mornings I desperately need in order to charge my batteries.

And here I am, back to a scenario so similar to last year's it makes me dizzy. Officially, I am only entitled to 7 more days of vacation until the end of the year. And the plan was to run off to the seaside for a week in August, to take another trip to Lisbon in autumn and then, as to avoid becoming depressed in November, to see how Istanbul was doing as a European Capital of Culture and check out the Gogol Bordello concert in Munich.

I'm pretty sure I'm looking at a long and not spectacular summer (unless I manage to pull myself together and do some serious writing, but I'm not the slightest bit serious in summer) and that I'll have to settle for less in autumn. And, most likely, I'll be so starved for a vacation in January that I'll make the same mistake all over again.

Time for another vacation

2010-07-01T23:27:00.002+02:00

On the road avec les parents. Should be interesting, it's been ages since we spent a vacation together.

The timing is perfect, because mid-July all hell breaks loose, September already looks awful with three major projects for work, university deadlines and a translation I can't seem to finish. But I can worry about that later and in the meantime enjoy my favorite pastime: packing.

Lisboa

2010-06-25T15:09:00.012+02:00

Exactly one month ago one of my travel fantasies was finally coming true and, like most fantasies, it was even better in reality. In my fantasy, Lisbon would be fabulous. In reality, it was love at first sight. Not the irrational, life-changing love story I had with Warsaw but rather the kind of intense summer fling which you assume will be over come fall. And then, by the end of summer, you realize you've been blown to pieces and it's the only thing on your mind. I can only hope there is not a limited amount of love when it comes to cities, otherwise I think I might have spent mine on Warsaw and Lisbon.

The city is relaxed and joyful like a perpetual vacation, cheerful without being annoying and user-friendly without being too organized, filled with small, family-owned restaurants and bars where after half an hour you feel like home, cakes are decadent and fruit tastes like real fruit, the shops are still open after midnight and so are some of the art galleries, men are incredibly cute and incredibly friendly, a world of adventures opens here and an amazing sailing history is there to prove it, yet there's a sweet sadness to it, a kind of resignation from something I couldn't really grasp, much like a woman who's aged gracefully but lost her beauty, walking barefoot in the narrow streets of Bairro Alto and singing her heartbreaking fado.

I've had a thing for Portuguese writers a long time before having a thing for Lisbon or for the language. And so this trip was the perfect opportunity to have lunch with one of my favorite characters in the history of literature. Needless to say, all of his heteronyms were there.

On my way back from the Fernando Pessoa Memorial House, I was pleasantly surprised to discover this in a station of the metro:

And a few days later, at the train station in Porto:

But the most amazing thing happened one lazy afternoon near the monument celebrating Henry the Navigator, Vasco da Gama, Pedro Alvares Cabral and other navigators who played an essential role in Portuguese maritime discoveries.

In a city filled with the presence of some of the men I admire most, in the place where adventures and discoveries started, I realized just how much I missed home, and just how at home I felt in Warsaw. It was the first time ever that I was in a new city which I happened to be fascinated with and still had the feeling there was something missing. I also believe it was the first time I missed home, a feeling so new and strange it was almost shocking. I've always missed people, I've missed places, too, but I've never missed home. I think I've become faithful without even noticing it. Acknowledging this change is one thing, dealing with it is something I'm not ready for, at least not until I've sailed my very own, fictional seven seas.

Glimpses of the weekend

2010-06-22T16:13:00.004+02:00

On the way back from London I got to thinking about relationships. Mainly because a lot of things have changed lately, but also because I've come to terms with the thought that sometimes it's a good idea to let go. And then I found a quote that's rather embarrassing and tacky, yet highly appropriate, so I have to mention it:

There comes a point in your life when you realize who matters, who never did, who won't anymore and who always will. So don't worry about people from your past, there's a reason why they didn't make it to your future. I'm not convinced I could tell, at this point, who won't matter anymore or who always will, this is all very relative. But the sad truth is that no matter how much I cared about some people, they seem to not fit in the picture anymore. And even though I'll always think of them fondly, I realized I don't have the energy to lie to myself that common memories, no matter how wonderful, are enough. On the other hand, there's always the excitement of discovering new people or rediscovering some of the old ones and that has got to be one of the best things I've ever experienced.

Back to my short and intense London trip, here's a few highlights:

a non-touristic tour of a very touristic part of London with one of my new friends, replacing pictures and maps with coffee and chats about books, couch surfing, movie scripts and horse races
cherry flavored beer at Tate Modern and a great discovery, Juliao Sarmento, an artist so amazing I'm actually planning a trip to Portugal in autumn to see his exhibition. Tate was twice the fun because I was there with one of my best friends ever, who I suspect knows everything about modern & contemporary art. Needless to say, it felt like taking a private tour spiced up with inside jokes and harmless gossip
Thames Clippers at dawn
living in Shepherd's Bush, just like the characters of the first novel I translated
Hello Kitty temporary tattoos
meeting one of my older friends, who has always been an inspiration to me due to his energy and unbelievably positive outlook upon life and who has always encouraged me to carry on with my plans, no matter how silly or implausible, because they're great
overdosing on Reese's Pieces, thus ending the gummy bears episode, hopefully for good

London calling

2010-06-18T12:31:00.004+02:00

I was about to finally write the story of my perfect Portuguese vacation, although it feels like it's been ages, not three weeks, since I was happily discovering Lisbon, when I noticed something very disturbing.

I'm meeting Big Brother for the weekend in London and as usual everything was planned a long time ago in the tiniest detail. I did, however, mix some details up (this happens a lot lately, I wonder if it's age related) and so half an hour ago it dawned on me I booked my flight to London from Poznan and not from Warsaw (my return ticket is from London to Warsaw). Which means I'm already out of time and I still have about one million things to take care of at the office, a train to catch and hopefully make it to the airport.

Which makes me wonder: am I tired and in desperate need for a vacation or the fact that I've been taking small vacations / long weekends lately has made me so relaxed that I can't even keep track of my own agenda?

***

2010-06-09T00:08:00.004+02:00

I was too late to tell my Gran all those things that were left unsaid. I didn't even make it in time to say goodbye. But later that evening, she found the perfect way to say it, a sunset so amazing, so beautiful and calm it made all words unnecessary. As always, she knew how to be there for me, warm and loving and wonderful, and I can only hope she knew I wished I could have been there for her.

Cinderella @ Casa Gogol

2010-06-02T11:45:00.003+02:00

My fabulous trip to Lisbon started in Milan, not exactly my favorite city in Europe, but a perfect location for a Gogol Bordello concert, as it turned out later on. Having seen Gogol perform in Bucharest and in Warsaw and being madly in love with them, I thought I was prepared for another night spent in the front rows. But I had no idea what was coming to me.

Italians are insane, no doubt about it. It took them about 15 seconds to get in the mood for punk rock parranda and after the first two songs half of the audience was shirtless and I was shoeless. And the one thing you don't want to try is barefoot pogo. Turns out I should have taken other things into account when putting my outfit together. Sure, it was colorful and gypsy and looked great, but next time I'm so not wearing slingbacks. If I ever decide to see Gogol in Italy, which is highly possible, I think I might have to wear military boots. Luckily, I was rescued just in time by a very nice Italian and recovered my shoe as well, and the whole thing could have been quite sweet if it hadn't been hilarious and idiotic before anything else. The fact that Eugene was screaming something about revolutions and his dick didn't help either, but once I reached a safer spot the night went on without any noticeable incidents.

Another thing I love about their concerts is that you're never alone, even if you are alone, that's why I'm not even slightly worried about not having someone with me to join the fun. Once again, Italians proved to be more friendly than the average, loud and joyful and inexhaustible, sharing drinks, joints, chocolate and chewing gum with anybody who happened to be around.

And as I can't seem to get enough of Gogol Bordello, I'm planning to see them in the UK and in Germany, not just for their wonderful and energizing music, but also because I'm really curious about their audience, wondering if it can get any better than in Italy.

In the morning, tired and bruised and happy as can be, I was on my way to Lisbon, where an epiphany was waiting round the corner.

25. The sequel

2010-05-30T23:05:00.003+02:00

Because I very much enjoyed being 25, I decided not to turn 26 this year, but instead to celebrate my 25th birthday once again. It seems like this decision has been very confusing for my friends, and with very few exceptions most of them forgot about my B-day or simply ignored it (I still don't know what's worse). That kinda hurt, although I didn't think I'd make such a big deal out of this, but apparently I did, especially as I didn't expect it from the people I love.

***

Since I'm such a fan of traveling, I figured the best way to spend my special day was to stay on the road and on the run. So after a night train from Lisbon to Porto, I flew to London and from there to Poznan and with the very last drops of energy I dragged my tired ass on a train to Warsaw. By the end of the day, it felt a bit odd to enter the house without a boarding pass and / or ticket. Now the one thing I really hate when I'm tired and cranky (and when I'm tired I'm always cranky) is the sound of babies crying, and I had my fair share of that on both of today's flights, to last me until I turn 26, or 27, or 25 again, next year.

When I landed in Poznan I was hungry and grumpier than I usually am, and the vegetarian sandwich I bought turned out to be anything but vegetarian. The slice of ham which I didn't observe (I don't usually study my food, once I'm assured it contains no meat) tasted foul and it made me sick in an instant, then again it wasn't the first time I threw up on my way from London to Warsaw, so I guess it's becoming a personal tradition, although the reasons could not have been any different from one trip to another.

***

And then there was the phone call from my Mom. Who did not forget about my birthday, but she had other things to tell me, as well. This morning, they took my Gran to the hospital. All of a sudden, everything else faded. All I wanted was to be home, hold her hand and tell her how much I loved her and how badly I needed her to stay around. Over the years, we've had such a powerful bond, and I'm sure she knows all this, but I just want to be there and make sure I tell her. I'm sad in a way I haven't been sad for a very long time, I'm neither depressed nor heartbroken nor disappointed, it's pure sadness and it's very difficult to bear. I knew once I decided to leave Romania and settle in Poland, at least for the time being, that such situations might occur. But thinking about it is one thing, actually experiencing the whole thing is a whole different story. I'm going home. I'm not even considering the possibility that it might be too late.

***

And thus ended, in the worst possible way, the best vacation I've had in ages. I'll be back with stories about it once I sort the pics and clear my mind.

Taczka Runners 6

2010-05-25T00:22:00.012+02:00

Just when I was about to settle for less and deal with the fact that I'll be attending my first TR with a particularly ugly wheelbarrow, things took an interesting turn. It was a day to remember and I'm already looking forward to next year's edition.

10 a.m. - way too early for anything, especially when instructions are not quite clear. Magda and I did our best to fit together the parts of my brand new wheelbarrow, but our best was not good enough:

11 a.m. - after several failed attempts we have to call Przemek and ask for help. On the way to the tent, Pan Janek takes a detour and drives us closer to the first meeting point:

11.15 a.m. - with a little help from my friends, my wheelbarrow is finally assembled:

11.30 a.m. - two hours before the big meeting, I'm working on my masterpiece. Even though it was very last minute, my ladybird was quite successful:

1.30 p.m. - first wheelbarrows show up. Magda's tiny wheelbarrow will prove to be very useful later on, and so will the retro fire siren:

2 p.m. - and they keep coming...

3 p.m. - and we're still waiting :)

4 p.m. - next stop, El Popo. A much needed break, turns out pushing a wheelbarrow around is serious business

5.30 p.m. - Kompresor, one last stop before our final destination. And yes, Sznurek had a high-tech wheelbarrow which actually did play music

7 p.m. - the parking lot outside the tent, our last stop.

The dream shoes

2010-05-19T21:55:00.007+02:00

It's been a few years since I've given up the idea that a girl can find the perfect shoes, the perfect dress or the perfect man, and it's made my life a lot less complicated. But yesterday the impossible happened. I bought my first pair of dancing shoes and I think I'm in love. They're lighter than most normal shoes, they're very flexible and seem to form around the feet, they put no pressure and the split leather sole appears to be the secret that makes ballroom dancing fabulous. Tomorrow night we're out to our first tango lesson and something tells me it will be amazing.

Apparently, finding the ideal shoes is easier than finding... a wheelbarrow. Maybe they're not so popular anymore, or maybe I'm just being too picky, whatever it is, this Saturday we're meeting back in Kato for the 6th edition of Taczka Runners and I still don't have a wheelbarrow. It's not like I haven't been looking and asking around, yet somehow I can't picture myself pushing around a wheelbarrow that weighs 25 kilos, especially as I'd have to take it from Warsaw to Kato by train. My frantic last-minute search reminded me of my friend C. who once dumped a guy after a first date, just because at some point he received a phone call from someone asking him if he had a wheelbarrow. She could not get over this and so she stopped returning his calls. Back then, we all decided it was a bit odd and rather funny - wheelbarrows were not part of our everyday life.

And here I am now, in a desperate situation, looking not just for a wheelbarrow, but for the perfect one - girlie, light, pretty and colorful.

My dancing shoes made me believe, once again, that it is possible to find perfection, however I'm wondering if it wasn't just a very happy coincidence, and in all other situations I'll have to settle for less.

Le Bourbon Kid

2010-05-15T02:12:00.004+02:00

It's only about three weeks until the release of another sensational Anonymous novel, The Devil's Graveyard, a story about a singing competition, dead rock stars and zombies, featuring Sanchez the bartender, the Mystic Lady and the world's favorite serial killer, the Bourbon Kid. Looking forward to it, especially as I know for sure I'll have the pleasure of translating it. Oddly enough, in the meantime I'm working on another novel, Friend of the Devil by Peter Robinson - just to stay in shape. Add to that one of the first books I've translated, quite a long time ago, The Devil's Companions, and I think I'm slowly but surely becoming an expert in anything & everything Devil.

And that's not the only good news, as the French edition is to be released on June 3rd. The trailer made in France has become number 1 on my list. The Polish trailers were very good, as was the entire promotion of the book, the Spanish one was a huge disappointment, but the French is awesome and I'm looking forward to reading Le livre sans nom (courtesy of Big Brother, who also bought the Spanish edition, a lovely birthday present and a great contribution to my collection, which now has a shelf of its own).

In other Book With No Name news - well, rather book-inspired - El Santino (my bike) and I had our first fight. I told him so many times to stop window shopping especially if it's raining, I'm not wearing my glasses and we're speeding, but he just wouldn't listen. So today the inevitable happened and we had our first serious accident. Luckily, there were no other victims, but now we're both bruised and while I can hide my bruises his are really hideous and require new layers of paint. I'm considering painting him pink just to get revenge and teach him a lesson. The good part is I have two new fabulous dresses.

Cannes 2010

2010-05-13T23:32:00.004+02:00

Being the movie freak that she is, my dear friend Ceci spotted this article and quoted it on her blog. Now I don't normally follow my friends' blogs because I'm looking for inspiration for my own, but this time I really really felt I should make an exception. So I did :)

Memory loss

2010-05-13T13:35:00.003+02:00

Being so far away from most of my friends is definitely one of the downsides of my expat experience. The fact that they're not all in one place only makes things more complicated, I'd have to quit my job just to have enough time to travel and visit them. Since this is not an option, or at least not yet, we have to rely on the internet / phones to stay updated and sometimes it can become really frustrating.

Then again, some other times it's a good thing to know they're all over Europe, especially as lately I seem to have been hit by amnesia or temporary insanity or both, which led to some serious errors of judgment.

I've been dreaming about my forthcoming trip to Portugal since March, when I started learning Portuguese. I payed special attention to planning this trip, I have the maps, the guides, the words, the books and the friends to make it a perfect vacation. Just how the hell did I manage to book my flights the way I did is still an unsolved mystery. I only discovered it a few days ago and ever since I kept checking my calendars, planners, post-its and diary trying to find out why, on the way back, I'm flying from Porto to London at 6 a.m. and then from London to Warsaw at 9 p.m. First I thought there were no other options, but I checked and double-checked and there were lots of other flights to choose from, way more convenient .

In the end, still without the slightest idea about this flaw in my perfect plan, I called my London-based friends and made plans for the day.

I just hope I won't remember what was it that I was planning to do after I'm back in Warsaw.

Book parties, tattoos, ballroom dance

2010-05-06T21:04:00.003+02:00

That's what I've been up to lately.

The weather seems to have a strange effect upon me and I was very close to never living the house again, or at least until May stopped looking and feeling like November. This is probably the coldest spring in forever. However, interesting things have been going on:

went to a book party where the publisher got so drunk he could barely speak, yet he insisted to do so and obviously it was hilarious. At some point I had to keep stuffing cheese cake in my mouth just to prevent a very inappropriate burst of laughter in the middle of yet another speech about the book. It was the first book party that resembled a wedding or a family reunion, as we were actually sitting down at long, wooden tables with candles and enough food to feed a small village, and I almost felt sorry there wasn't a band.
got my first tattoos - one of them is still peeling so once it starts looking decent I'll post pics.
my cousin, whom I haven't seen since we were 12, showed up out of nowhere and apparently she lives in Milan and has promised to take me out shopping after the Gogol Bordello concert, just three weeks from now. I've never been a fan of my family, except for my parents and my Gran, but I'm a fool for tacky soap-opera scenarios, so I'm kinda looking forward to this meeting.
went to a Polish wedding and survived - I've been warned there'd be lots of vodka, which was true, but saying "No, thank you" proved to be easy and effective, so I really enjoyed it and now I can't wait for my other friends to celebrate their very brave decisions with lots of cake and really really cheesy music.
decided to take dance lessons. Apparently very few schools will teach you ballroom dance if you're single, so my only options seemed to be belly dancing, latino mix, salsa for singles and hip hop. Luckily, out of 20-something schools on my list, 7 will not discriminate against singles so next week I'll be checking them out and very soon I'll be out shopping for dancing shoes.

Lights, camera, action

2010-04-22T00:32:00.004+02:00

A while back I wrote a story about obsessions pushed to the limit.

Some of the people who read it told me it was very good.

Others, like a dear friend of mine who is one of the best editors I've ever known, told me how I could make it even better. So I kept writing and rewriting.

Then a movie director asked me if I was interested in turning my story into a script. Huh? Script? Who, me? You mean the story? Well, I wouldn't know how...uhhh...I don't write scripts...so... errrr... ummm... no?!

Luckily, she was patient enough to explain things in the tiniest detail, so I finally understood I wasn't supposed to actually write the script all by myself, but rather to come up with a first draft which will then fall into the hands of professional script writers, with whom I'll be working closely for the upcoming months.

And so I wrote it.

And she liked it.

It still feels a bit surreal.

Language freak?

2010-04-21T22:30:00.003+02:00

Probably, if these things sound familiar:

you have a few favorite words in each foreign language you speak.
you tend to buy dictionaries and / or grammar books even if you're not currently learning that particular language or planning to do so in the near future.
you think etymology is entertaining.
you immediately spot foreign words spoken around you and can identify at least the language family, if not precisely name the language.
you know the very basic words and can form simple sentences in at least five languages.
you don't think there is a universal method when it comes to learning foreign languages. To each its own.
you like to mingle with the locals wherever you go and you don't have a problem with making a fool of yourself, because it's one of the best things to do in order to enrich your vocabulary.
you love your accent(s).
you're not afraid of mistakes.
you can tell the difference between front, central and back vowels and you don't think the international phonetic alphabet looks scary.
you might consider learning a new language just because you like a word / song / quote in that language and the language factor is crucial if it comes to moving to another country. In fact, you could move to another country just because you like speaking the language.

Facts and fiction

2010-04-17T15:22:00.003+02:00

I'm a fool for catastrophes and apocalyptic scenarios. I think I've seen more disaster films than I'd ever be willing to admit. Earthquakes, floods, fires, volcanoes, asteroid collisions, hurricanes, acid rains, killer bees / snakes / rats, tornadoes, landslides, aliens - you name it, I've seen it. Even the crappiest, most embarrassing and poorly directed disaster made in Hollywood will keep me hypnotized for hours. I won't move, breathe or talk (!) for as long as the world is falling apart in front of me. These films are just like gummy bears - different colors, same taste, unproblematic and they leave me wanting more every time. With books, it's quite the opposite. Sure, I've read and loved the apocalyptic scenarios of Saramago, Auster and H.G. Wells but there's more to these books than just disaster, whereas the literary equivalents of the above mentioned films have no effect upon me.

So now, with the ash cloud from the unpronounceable volcano above my head, I may have found the perfect treat for a lazy Saturday afternoon: White Noise by Don DeLillo. There's nothing I love more than an appropriate fictional response to a real situation. Saves me from elaborating my own fictions and lately I've been doing that quite a lot. A well deserved and very enjoyable break.

Legalized

2010-04-15T21:22:00.004+02:00

One of my favorite places in Warsaw is the Department for Foreigners at the Mazovian Province Office. Not because of the lines, the lack of air or the extremely unfriendly employees, but because it's one of the most multicultural venues in the city. As I was quietly waiting to get my hands on the document that finally made my stay in Warsaw legal, I met the following people: brother Jonathan and brother Joshua, spreading the word of God and being annoyingly nice and extra talkative, Fernando from Spain who has his own business in Poland and who looked disappointed when I told him I wasn't exactly interested in natural leather bags, a Nigerian law student with perfect abs on display under an absurdly tight I heart Poland t-shirt, five Koreans who had just moved to Warsaw and, wisely enough, decided to have the official papers sorted out without delay, one Japanese lady who seemed very confused and overwhelmed by the pile of documents she was carrying and a very charming French gentleman with his lovely and much younger Polish fiancée.

It was pure bliss to hear Polish spoken with our wonderful foreign accents and even better to finally be legalized :)

And then...it wasn't so much fun anymore, as El Santino and I returned to the office to find this right outside the window:

Later, on the way home, we almost ran over two children and a nun and we had a rather unpleasant encounter with a bus. These days, walking might be a safer option. Actually, the only option.

El Santino

2010-04-13T23:02:00.003+02:00

The other side of the mirror

2010-04-11T22:23:00.004+02:00

One month ago, part of my inner world collapsed. True, it had the consistency of a sandcastle and its demolition in the blink of an eye was rather predictable. Nevertheless, I was torn apart and overwhelmed by sadness. Then all I wanted was to get away. To escape into the outer world, thinking that the ruins might magically disappear if I just looked the other way. But the outer world was non-responsive and it followed its course as if my drama wasn't even there. So I had to consume it in order to overcome it, even though the days seemed empty and it took me four weeks to remember how much I valued my happiness and just how great my inner world was, even without the sandcastle.

Now all I want is to isolate myself from the outer world. I'd want my inner world to be strong enough to shelter me from sadness, I've never been good at dealing with my negative emotions. The mere thought that I have to pass by the Presidential Palace on the way to work makes me shiver.

Turns out there's no escape. And though there may be times when the inner world and the outer one are on the same wavelength, some other times it's almost impossible to run away from one into the other. But it would be nice if it didn't take sadness to overcome sadness and one shock to forget about another one.

Speechless

2010-04-10T12:26:00.003+02:00

70 years after the tragedy of Katyn, Poland goes through a national nightmare all over again. I'm sad and shocked and somehow I still can't believe it. But just like in the course of its dramatic history, Poland will manage to recover and move on. Again and again and again.

Lela Pala Tute

2010-04-08T01:00:00.005+02:00

I was just about to write a long and boring post about cultural awareness, stereotypes, the never-ending confusion Romanian / Romany (yes, we are different, and this mix-up might be offensive to many Romanians), my admiration for their passion and the beauty of their culture.

But they don't need me as their spokesperson, not even on my own blog. Because they have their fabulous music. Yeah, and they have Eugene :)

April 8th, International Day of the Romany Nation.

May 24th, Celebration of Santa Sara Kali, patron saint of the Gypsies.

May 25th, Gogol Bordello live in Milan. The perfect beginning for a disco-radical-transglobal vacation.

Not funny anymore

2010-04-03T01:41:00.006+02:00

The saddest thing when working with books is seeing what the author intended to do, understanding what the book was meant to be and noticing how it failed on all fronts. Even though I know for a fact that one of the next books I'll be translating will be loads of fun and definitely not a failure, I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth going through this ordeal. I don't normally remember my dreams, but when I wake up in the middle of the night because of dead babies, dirty diapers and abortions I find it quite alarming.

I was very close to emailing the publisher and sending the book back, thus pulling myself out of my misery.

But this teaches me a very valuable lesson: never again will I accept a translation based solely on a one-page assessment written by somebody I don't know and trust.

I'm looking at a long and unpleasant weekend.

Later edit: The nightmare is over. It taught me two other lessons and once I'm done sharing the wisdom of the monster it will not be mentioned again, under any circumstances.

1. An MA in Creative Writing can help you become a better writer. It does not make you a writer, let alone a good one. Maybe you know structure, character, voice, plot, message, but when your writing skills are too poor to cover all the above the result is a sad little novel that's just a bit better than a mediocre assignment in creative writing. And if you like Saramago and feel inspired by him (who wouldn't?) and think you can get away without dialog tags just because he does, think again.

2. Maybe I was very subjective and, possibly, very wrong about it. In the end, the monstrosity has a reputable publisher and it's been longlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction in 2008. But this doesn't solve the mystery of the pyramids. Unless I read science fiction or fantasy (and this does not happen very often) I expect the authors to research every info that's in the book. Major and minor issues, doesn't matter. You're telling me a story and it's set in a world I might have some idea of, please make it plausible. It's very simple. When the main characters have their pictures taken with the three pyramids in the Valley of the Kings, this is not just a proof of the author's poor knowledge of history (not knowing it is perfectly acceptable if you're not going to display this in a novel) but also a proof of disrespect. For the story, for the readers and, ultimately, for yourself as an author.

There. It's out of my system. And yes, there is a reward. I just have to be patient :)

Quit

2010-04-01T21:31:00.006+02:00

For the first time in ten years, I've been thinking about giving up smoking. Not because I don't enjoy it as much as ever or because I've become smarter and finally understood it was bad for my health, but rather because I was curious how it feels to be a nonsmoker.

Yesterday a friend gave me a book that apparently works wonders and brainwashes you into not smoking.

Today I came home with a hundred duty free packs of Marlboro Lights.

They say that last cigarette is something to remember for the rest of your life and transform into a success story.

I'm still researching, but can't seem to find any information about the last two thousand cigarettes.

Confused

2010-03-29T22:35:00.004+02:00

I'm supposed to be working on my article as I'm once again shamelessly late, but unfortunately in no mood to research expat literature. The nightmare of translating Monster Love is not over yet although I do see the light at the end of the tunnel and I have way too much homework for my Portuguese class. And there's another project which is spectacular in every way, although it might be too much of a challenge, but I'll make the announcement here soon, once I'm sure I can handle it. Then again, wasting my time especially when I have none to waste is an art that I need to bring to perfection.

So instead of doing what I should be doing, I'm busy planning my next vacation, looking for flights and putting together a list of concerts and festivals that can't be missed this summer. I also came across this: a shooting signed Karl Lagerfeld and art director Olivier Zahm, paying homage to photographer Helmut Newton, who is famous for his nude studies of women.

photos: trendhunter

I kept staring at the pics and in the end decided they were equally artistic and disturbing. Especially if connected with one particular Givenchy collection, can't remember which one, but I do remember very manly men wearing skirts and shiny leggins. Also, it is rumored that Bryan Boy will soon be collaborating with Vogue and H&M intend to sell skirts for men starting this spring. I'm not sure if this is a sign of freedom, experiment, an artistic statement, a revolution of trends or just a sample of plain stupidity. I wonder if normal men will become obsolete. Then again, we did claim our right to trousers more than one hundred years ago, so maybe there is no better time than the present for cross-dressing.

City doping

2010-03-28T10:21:00.006+02:00

One weekend was all it took to fall back in love with Warsaw, which seems to have gone through a metamorphosis overnight. Only two weeks ago it was snowy, greyish and not particularly active. And then all of a sudden it blossomed. After all these months spent here, I can now see I was not crazy when I decided this was a wonderful city to live in. I'm beginning to recognize my Warsaw and to regain my enthusiasm. Sure, it helps if a good old friend is around. Giving her a tour of the city has helped open my eyes and reestablish a connection I feared was lost for good.

In just four days, we explored Warsaw and fully enjoyed its cultural delights, from exhibition openings to conferences on literature and immigration to late night parties and early morning afterparties.

This is not a review of the hottest, newest or smartest places and events in Warsaw, but a few highlights are worth mentioning.

The Centre for Contemporary Art is currently hosting an exhibition about prepositions, which I found so fabulous I actually wanted to move in one of the rooms. I know I'm a fool for grammar and languages, yet seeing them play the leading part in an exhibition made me utterly happy for the rest of the day. This is the kind of art I'd love to own:

As always, Praga district is the best place for very pleasant surprises, although some might claim it's neither safe nor pretty. They are so wrong it almost makes me feel sorry for them.

Since we tend to live our lives on fast-forward and up to date with everything and anything from unpublished books to exhibitions that are still work in progress to crappy celebrity gossip which we do enjoy in small amounts, it was only natural to hang out in a coffee-shop-open-house-hipster meeting point that's not even officially open yet. While checking out the art galleries in Praga, we discovered this place run by Kasha & William, two of the nicest people I've met in Warsaw, so full of positive energy and radiant, they almost seemed to be from another reality. Their open house is, by far, my new favorite place in Warsaw - it looks like a very eclectic living room where no two pieces of furniture match, yet the overall sensation is of perfect harmony and coziness. They have a rat and a raven, make the best Turkish coffee ever and are talkative, open and smiling all the time. After an hour spent there, it felt rather like visiting some old friends than having a cup of coffee in a place that is one month away from its official inauguration.

Even the Brave New World, the socialist-intellectual-ideological pub seems to have given in to the idea that work and play go hand in hand. Sure, they still have a very busy schedule, lots of conferences, debates and meetings, yet on a Friday night socialism can wait. And we can dance. I'm not a big fan of DJs and electronic music is not my favorite thing on the menu, but I'll order it from time to time and with the right company, it might turn out to be loads of fun.

This morning we went to say goodbye to one of the few gay clubs in Warsaw. We decided we could skip the party on Saturday and just show up at the afterparty, fresh and rested and wearing perfect make-up. Which is exactly what we did, I can't remember the last time I woke up at 5 and it was definitely the first time I was up at that hour because I was going clubbing.

On our way back, Warsaw was sunny and buzzing, old ladies were on their way to church, everybody else is either running or watching the marathon.

Except for us. We don't do church and we just decided biking is about ten times cooler than running. Which is why next week I'm planning to buy the most adorable bike on the planet (found it in Praga, obviously). I'll need to move fast as to keep pace with the city. And I have a feeling I'm going to love every minute of it.

The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs

2010-03-25T11:56:00.002+01:00

Just watched the newest SP, awesome and insanely funny. One of my top 10 episodes ever, without a doubt. It's got all the right ingredients: banned books, interpretation & overinterpretation, vomit, Sarah Jessica Parker, murder and The Catcher in the Rye. Definitely a must see.

New role model

2010-03-24T20:41:00.003+01:00

Met a girl today who likes Italian food, Italian cars, spends her holidays in Dubai and finds reading unnecessary. She can't imagine going through life wearing anything else but high heels, miniskirts and massive golden earrings. Today was no exception, but I'm still confused about the scrunchie holding her hair in a ponytail - can't tell if it was an accident or a statement that attention to details is also unnecessary.

Anyway, I think her life is smooth and uncomplicated and when I grow up I want to be just like her.

Something wrong in this picture

2010-03-24T11:54:00.003+01:00

This morning I thought hell broke loose right in the middle of my apartment. The phone was ringing off the hook and my cell did its best to accompany it, my neighbors were drilling holes - in their walls and apparently in everybody else's, that's got to be the only logical explanation and an ambulance pride parade seemed to be taking place right outside my window. As it was only 7:10, I didn't bother to pick up any of the phones, I ignored the mayhem and went back to sleep until my laptop started squealing, invaded by about one hundred trojans and worms in less than five minutes. This was already too much. And the phones were still ringing. I had to take things one at a time so coffee was definitely a priority. Armed with an extra-large cup of searing hot coffee, I went back to check on my laptop. Keeping my eyes open was a real torture, but I managed to stay focused. And just when I was about to fix the problem, the doorbell rang. And rang. It occurred to me that somebody might have died with their finger stuck on my doorbell, then again I couldn't care less about them. The sound had scared the hell out of me and, as a result, I spilled half of my extra-large cup of coffee all over my laptop. Trojan problem solved. For good, I guess. Turns out the guy who was so impatient to pay me a visit before 8 was just checking if the lights were ok. It was already so surreal, I didn't even feel like making any comment. The people calling were a sales agent who wanted to know if I was familiar with a brand new line of pressure cookers and a woman from my bank making a survey about the quality of their services.

As I walked to work, I noticed Warsaw was unbelievably quiet. I almost felt embarrassed when my phone started ringing. I had the impression that all heads were turning in my direction, as if we were in an open-air museum where the only acceptable sounds are the singing benches. Yes, Warsaw's gone Chopin crazy.

After about ten minutes of serenity it was back to chaos all over again, as some of the offices in the building are being refurbished. If things go on like this, there's only one option left: increasing the nicotine intake and the number of cigarette breaks out in the sun, on a singing bench.

Monster task

2010-03-23T09:39:00.004+01:00

I am currently dealing with a literary nightmare of epic proportions. The fact that I have to translate it only makes it about one hundred times worse.

Carol Topolski is a psychoanalyst who, I assume, woke up one morning and decided to be a writer. So she came up with a plot that's sick and disgusting in every conceivable way, not to mention far from being well written. Brendan and Sherilyn are madly in love, their visceral attraction quickly transforms into a form of interdependence and they are so wrapped up in each other, that no one and nothing can come between them. Not even little Samantha, their daughter. After the first few pages, we know for sure that Samantha is dead, because her parents locked her in a cage and left her there. That's what Monster Love is all about. Definitely, story-telling is not Topolski's thing, so for the remaining two hundred and something pages, she experiments with all sorts of different voices, all bringing new perspectives upon the young couple. The way I'm writing about this book might actually make it sound ok, experimental, brave, challenging and thought-provoking when in fact it is as lame as can be and there's about as much experiment in it as there was in the rule of the three units back in the 17th century.

Now everyone who knows me - and I don't mean those people who know me really well, it doesn't take years to figure this out, knows I'm not exactly a child-person. I tolerate them because society forces me to be in the same room with a child from time to time, but that's as far as I'll go. Still, locking a baby in a cage and leaving it there to die is where I draw the line.

I want literature to invent worlds, to make me believe in them, to allow me to lose myself in fiction. And I don't even expect a fairy-tale every time. I can deal with really hardcore-mind-blowing-heartbreaking-devastating writings, as long as they're well written, imaginative and powerful. I'll also enjoy writings inspired from true stories and I have nothing against a journalistic approach, however I do have one demand: if you're going to tell me a story about something I read in the newspapers just the other day, you'd better make it a f***ing great story. If you're not going to show me that reality in a brand new light, from a perspective I wouldn't have normally thought of, I'll go back to reading the news. And then back to real literature.

And whatever you do, don't ever say such things in an interview:

Well, I'm not at all mystical when it comes to writing, but having spent much of my professional life rummaging around in the unconscious, I have to say the story - or a character at least - popped up quite unbidden one day when I was writing something else. I can only think she emerged from the dark side of my mind. I was experimenting with a first person voice in another story and suddenly found myself writing two sides of A4 in the primitive voice of a little girl whop appeared to be in a cage.

If there's a heaven for translators, there'd better be a reward waiting for me.

Games people play

2010-03-21T12:35:00.004+01:00

There are few things more entertaining on a Sunday morning than labeling all the objects around me with their Portuguese names. As usual, an adequate soundtrack is required and the best songs for improving pronunciation and enriching vocabulary are those really, really cheesy songs that nobody admits listening to because they are way too embarrassing. (Yet everybody knows them and whenever there's enough alcohol involved, especially during a family reunion or a wedding, everybody ends up singing them really loud and really badly).

I tend to think of these songs as highly efficient language-learning tools and they did wonders for me while learning Polish. Back in those days when it was still surprising that people can pronounce so many consonants without choking, I was more than happy to learn songs about pride, courage, the homeland, wine and/or vodka, melancholy and sufferance - major historic events seemed to have the same heartbreaking effect as unaccomplished love.

Having moved on, I can now fully understand why nobody openly admits they enjoy these songs, although from time to time I'll listen to them just for the sake of those wonderful first days when a grammatically correct sentence was more of an achievement that an academic essay and every conversation was a personal victory. I am however looking forward to attending a Polish wedding (it's one of this year's highlights, Polish weddings are said to be really spectacular and thanks to my friend Kuba this event will have more than just anthropological potential, as I will not be a mere observer, I'll be maid of honor).

With Portuguese songs, the story is quite different. They speak about falling in love in the blink of an eye, dancing, pounding hearts, lust, playing games and burning fires. As I still don't have first hand experience with Portugal, it's tough to say whether these songs are as accurate as Polish songs in summing up the country's culture and the spirit of its people, but I'm not that far away from that experience, either. By the end of May I'll have a pretty clear picture. And if my intuition is right, this culture will be a lot easier to understand.

Back

2010-03-16T22:22:00.003+01:00

Whenever things seem to go awfully wrong, there's something out there that puts them back in order without requiring any effort or, for that matter, any contribution from my side. True, I'm very lucky to have some of the best friends a girl could ever hope for so that makes everything a lot easier. After an extra-crappy Sunday evening with loads of snow, which alone could have been enough of a reason to make me feel down, the week started with some great news and with two early Christmas presents. I was expecting books, but was pleasantly surprised to discover they were delivered with chocolates & jewelry. A classical combination that works almost every time, except maybe on those days when I can't stomach any food and don't really feel like wearing anything else but a pair of worn-out jeans and a hoodie. But those days will soon be over. And although I felt like staying in and trying to focus on work as to avoid interacting with too many people, apparently it's not an option. With the release of (yet) another magazine and a fabulous party to celebrate it, the opening of an exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art and a concert organized by the people at my favorite art gallery, in a building that's soon to be demolished, things suddenly look a lot brighter than they did on Sunday. And the best part is that Big Brother is flying in from Paris next week, which requires very careful planning and a selection of the best cultural attractions Warsaw has to offer. Focused on out-of-Katowice events in the past few weeks, I almost didn't notice we were only two months away from this year's Taczka Runners and I still don't have a wheelbarrow. I think I'm running out of time.

Staying on the run. With the appropriate soundtrack (one of my most amazing friends reminded me of just how right these guys are when it comes to life issues)

Bruising made easy

2010-03-13T19:02:00.003+01:00

1. invent an implausible story
2. take your time convincing yourself it's not only plausible, but also probably the best story you'll ever come up with
3. do your best to force reality to fit into the pattern
4. ignore all the signs that it doesn't
5. open your eyes and assess the damage
6. blame yourself for everything but the implausible story you started with

Better late than never

2010-03-09T16:08:00.003+01:00

Eight months later than expected, it's finally time for my summer holiday. The one I still owed myself. Last year was quite a good one if I don't take into account the fact that I was working like a dork while everyone else was having fun, so now it's my turn :) And because I was rather traumatized by the lack of a decent vacation in 2009, I've already planned another trip in April and one in May. That should be enough of a compensation.

As for this trip, there's a beach involved, but that's about the only thing it might have in common with my usual summer holidays.

Spring collection

2010-03-04T11:04:00.004+01:00

The following is a theory I developed some time ago, back in those days when I still had time to develop theories, now I'm rather scenario-oriented. Learning foreign languages can sometimes resemble wearing high heels. It's pretty, every tiny step is a tiny victory, at least until the shoes become comfortable enough, but it can also be annoying, painful or even not worth it.

photo: stylediary

Polish was definitely my first pair of stilettos and it followed the pattern: seen 'em, loved 'em, bought 'em - now what? During those first weeks of Polish I was very impatient, I wanted more, I couldn't wait until I'd finally be able to speak fluently, but it was too much of an effort. Much like high heels, it was gorgeous, it made me happy, but it was uncomfortable and tiresome. I was relieved when I could switch to English. The faithful, adorable and colorful pair of Chucks. The ones I'm likely to choose over anything else, no matter how sensational and eye-catching. Even if they don't always fit in the picture or match the outfit- it's a sin I'm happy to commit whenever I have the chance (and I do, very often).

Back in high school I had a thing for Spanish. Which was much like a kitten heel. Comfy, sweet, reliable and pretty without much effort. Not necessarily spectacular, still one of my favorites. But after getting used to wearing stilettos on a daily basis, a low heel feels odd and not entirely wearable. French was similar to a cone heel. Might look good but I never knew what to wear it with and how to make it look good on me. I'll speak French if I have to, but I need to be in the mood for it or to miss speaking it and that hardly ever happens.

As high school was a time for experiments of all sorts, I took a Japanese class for about a year. Totally a prism heel. Very unusual and so not me, the reasons for my attending that class are still unclear but it's ten years now and I might as well let it go. In the same fashion, several years later I had a rather disappointing encounter with German. I felt like one of those runway models falling flat on my face, in shoes that don't fit me at all but that look just perfect on other people.

Yesterday I added a new piece to the collection. Portuguese. Or a really nice and original pair of wedges, with a cosmopolitan - laid-back - sexy look. It has the huge advantage of being closely related to Romanian and that helps a lot. After all, this is the only pair of shoes that's entirely comfortable.

I'm still muzzy about all the Brazilian / European Portuguese differences (especially when it comes to pronunciation) and I think the time has come to have my tongue pierced. Hell, I moved to Poland in order to improve my Polish, what's a tongue piercing compared to that? It's the least I could do, a small step towards a perfect Portuguese pronunciation. It would be great if I could stick to that. Unfortunately, I can already see the pattern: it's going to take me about two years (or less) to decide I just have to move to Portugal, that it's the best place for me, I'll find a job or some studies or both, a house, make new friends and get used to a new city which will eventually not suit me anymore.

Sometimes walking in my shoes can be really exhausting.

One of those days

2010-03-01T21:15:00.004+01:00

Today I successfully managed to block all my Polish cards. Numbers might not be my thing, but this is just too much. How hard can it be to remember a few digits in the right order, especially when it comes to the cards I use on a daily basis? I don't even want to try using the Romanian cards. Apparently, I'm dealing with a memory-loss situation that might turn out to be more serious than I thought.

The Portuguese course was supposed to start today but the teacher got lost on the way so after 20 very uncomfortable minutes of staring at the walls and at each other, my colleagues and I were told we'll start on Wednesday. Probably.

Came back home to find a poster downstairs informing that one of my neighbours died. I find it very disturbing and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do - if anything. And how do you ignore a poster that delivers such information?

Last but not least, I think I'm coming down with a cold, as Polish spring is never what it seems to be - if it's sunny and warm in the morning, that's hardly a reason to dress accordingly.

By the end of the day, I was frozen, soaked to the skin and grumpier than I've been in a very long time. I'd dye my hair but I'm afraid I'm not ready to deal with the consequences in case I make the tiniest mistake, so instead I'll just wait and see what tomorrow brings.

One day, I'll look for my head and it'll be gone

2010-02-17T22:12:00.002+01:00

Big meeting tomorrow. I had all the materials neatly prepared and figured nothing could possibly go wrong. Now I know something might go wrong, because I left them at the store next to my house. The bright side is I have 2 packs of cigarettes to keep me company while I freak out about not finding them tomorrow morning. Oddly enough, it's the same store where a few days ago I left all the stuff I had just bought and only realized it the next day. This reminded me of my superb grumpy-but-gorgeous pajamas I lost some years ago in Spain and a few other pieces of clothing that have somehow vanished from my wardrobe or from my luggage or God knows what happened to them, the point is I can't seem to find them anymore and some of them were fabulous and I miss them, so if anyone knows anything about them, I'd appreciate the information. Once I lost my birth certificate, found it in one of my Literary Theory readers and then lost it again. Last week I also noticed my contract of employment was missing and I have no clue as to where it could be. Over the years, I've lost countless sets of keys (my own but also the keys of every apartment I've ever spent even a few hours in) and dozens of lip balms.

I really wish I could say I learnt something today, but I didn't, and perhaps I never will.

As for the big meeting, I can either go back to the office, drink hectoliters of coffee and prepare everything neatly once again or go to sleep and figure something out tomorrow morning. A decision that's obviously easy to make.

Berlin reunion

2010-02-17T14:37:00.003+01:00

After a year and a half, the three of us were once again in the same city. And we had very little time, yet we did manage to make the best of it.

Meeting the girls and hanging out with them made me reflect upon my shallowness, my happiness and my sometimes very unhealthy obsessions and fears. And while I’m perfectly ok with the first two and content with most of the choices I’ve made, I figured it would be in my best interest to stop obsessing and let go of my fears - in the end, it's been 10 years and it would have been even more unsettling if things hadn't changed at all. However, looking back at those 10 years, with their ups and downs, even though I did manage to come to terms with the fact that as we grow older, we have new priorities and outlooks upon life, I still think we're not old enough for such a conversation:

my high school crush was not a crush, it was a crash

mine is best to be avoided, even after all those years

mine is dead...

It so happened that Ceci was there reporting live from the film festival, so almost all our meeting points, day and night, were somewhere near the red carpet. So I discovered that proximity to glamour can make you feel glam, but also that you can't rely on your friends, especially when you ask them to shamelessly use & abuse their press pass. And so, because Ceci is very ethical and professional at very inappropriate times, she refused to set me up with Leonardo DiCaprio :(

Berlin was amazing and more than just a very good setting for our reunion. I'm officially in love. I don't want to move there, not planning to start over (yet) again, not at all ready for the whole packing-unpacking-life twisting scenario, but it could easily become a regular weekend destination. Coming from a city like Warsaw, which has its odd and melancholic charm, distant and not exactly open to multicultural experiences, Berlin is like a breath of fresh air. It's dynamic, light and positive, with a contagious energy. And I just love the fact that everybody smiles - it's not very common to see people smiling in the streets of Warsaw. Its magic is made up of all those apparently insignificant details: the Russian accordionist on the S-Bahn, the Iranian shop with all the conceivable and unconceivable spices in the world, next door to our hotel, the colorful Kreuzberg district with its extra sweet cakes, immigrants, radicals and the most amazing artichoke in the world, the Russian market with fresh fruit late at night and the Asian supermarket with everything and anything aloe, the industrial buildings and the art world they hide and of course the exciting nightlife. I may have found my favorite club in Berlin, although it's rather an assumption, not a certainty. SO36 was described in my guide as being home to any alternative lifestyle, from gay Turks and metal heads to punks and hardcore vegans. I wouldn't know, because unfortunately we didn't make it there - I blame it on that last round of shots, but another fairly reasonable explanation was that the last round of shots came after we had tested almost everything on the menu. But I think I found the perfect excuse for yet another perfect weekend in Berlin.

Świat Książki strikes again

2010-02-09T22:14:00.009+01:00

When it comes to book events, promotional campaigns, publishing houses and book parties, I'm very hard to please. I find most of them dull, old-fashioned, predictable and they're hardly ever book-oriented.

In most cases, we are dealing with a universal pattern that guarantees about 10 people in the audience: two or three speakers (at least one of them must be a literary critic), a moderator with very bad moderating skills (usually, some messed up PR person who has to be there because it's a job thing), a pile of books on a table in the corner, three or four on the table in front of the speakers, a venue that's normally popular (pub, club, fancy coffee shop) and a very inadequate timing (very few people bother to enter a club late in the afternoon, and it's even more embarrassing when the event takes place somewhere downstairs, while upstairs the bartenders are getting ready for a busy night, with no customers in sight), some sad little abstract posters and a lonely dusty banner. The really daring and outrageous book events might feature a piano intermezzo that's sure to bore everyone out of their skull and cheap wine that won't even get the audience drunk, as to make things bearable. As far as campaigns are concerned, a book is lucky to get some publicity in the press, a teaser that tries to be funny / witty / controversial and in most cases fails and some pathetic Facebook announcements two days before the event. Most books are just thrown out there and end up in bookstores without anyone noticing they were there. True, I've only had firsthand experiences of the Romanian and Polish markets so maybe the pattern isn't all that universal after all, and somewhere out there another pattern awaits to be discovered and imported.

Luckily, there are exceptions to the rule. And when they do occur, they are truly...exceptional. Which is to be expected, especially when the book that makes the object of the campaign is a masterpiece.

Given the fact that we are talking about the follow-up to The Book, given my emotional implication and the effort put in translating it, it is with heavy heart that I have to announce yet another brilliant campaign made in Poland. My adoptive country wins again, this time promoting The Eye of the Moon.

First there was the contest: smart, perfectly capturing the spirit of the book, introducing the characters and their stories, giving fans the opportunity to come up with their own interpretations (I find it so good I was almost tempted to translate it into English, for the sake of my non-Polish speaking readers).

Then came the trailer:

And then the newspaper - The Santa Mondega Times, an awesome sneak preview to the book:

I do expect a party sometime in the near future. And in the meantime, something to look forward to: only a few months left until the official release of the third book, The Devil's Graveyard.

Sequence of events

2010-02-05T13:43:00.004+01:00

It is said that as we grow older, memory loss becomes a serious issue. But it wasn't until yesterday that I felt somewhat affected by this - I always thought wrinkles, bills, work and taxes were the big problems that come with the aging process. And I was prepared to fight them with increased intake of coenzyme Q10, a better organized agenda and loads of colorful post-its. It didn't occur to me that I might need post-its to remind me what I did last summer. Or the summer before that.

One week before our Berlin reunion, Vero, Ceci and I tried to remember when was the last time the three of us met. Sure, we managed to meet for a quick coffee and much needed updates here and there - Katowice, Paris, Bucharest, but it so happened that one of us was always missing. So yesterday Vero popped the inevitable question: "When did we last meet, all of us?". It took about three hours, Ceci's blog, my diary and a review of the biggest concerts in Bucharest in the past two years to finally figure out that we last met in August 2008 for a Massive Attack concert. And before that, in October 2007, we all went to see Muse live in Bucharest for the first time ever. By the time we reached this conclusion, we were all tired, annoyed and very confused about our summer holidays, winter breaks, birthdays, studies, jobs and ex-boyfriends. There was no chronology, it was as if everything had happened in the blink of an eye and the overall picture of the last years was very, very blurry. And the biggest problem isn't that everything was dull or not spectacular or not worth remembering - we do remember the details of particular events or holidays, we just can't seem to tell when they happened.

Note to self (and the girls): take pictures, write everything down, use post-its, accept senility as part of daily life.

Culinary art

2010-02-01T21:22:00.004+01:00

Following a recipe found by Przemek in the depths of the internet and with a helping hand from Magda, tonight I changed my gummy bears routine for homemade cake. It was about time I took cooking seriously, and I am very glad I did. I think I am really talented. It took exactly 12 minutes to turn the kitchen upside down, bake the cake and get down to writing. I also developed new, until today unconceivable feelings for my microwave oven.

The battlefield:

Baked in 3 minutes:

Edible and even tasty with extra whipped cream and toffee sauce: